CHAPTER ONE
London, 1820
There was a severed hand in the ballroom.
Lady Juliet Cavendish, pausing at the entrance, gaped in horror, for the blackened flesh was perched precariously atop a canopic jar, hardly the proper place for such a specimen. Indeed, one glance told Juliet that the entire ballroom was piled high in disarray, and she loosed a sigh of disgust.
Had she been present to oversee the arrival of her father’s latest acquisitions, this clutter could have been prevented. But, apparently, the shipment had been unloaded during the night, and no one had thought to wake her. Although unsurprised by the lapse, Juliet was annoyed by it, for she might have put some order to the objects as they were brought into the house. Now her task of sorting and cataloguing would be doubly difficult.
Carefully snatching up the severed hand before it could topple and become damaged, Juliet stepped into the room, weaving her way around heavy crates and statuary toward a massive dining table that had been set over the parquet floor for her use. Unfortunately, she discovered that its surface was heaped high as well. Muttering under her breath about the general carelessness of those responsible, Juliet finally managed to clear a small space on the gleaming mahogany. It took her a few more minutes to locate the pencil and notebooks that had been moved aside, but at last she was prepared to work.
Pushing the spectacles up on her nose, she glanced about. Now, where to start? Usually, she would catalogue the heaviest objects first, but one look told her they were scattered, so she decided to reverse the order of her study, beginning with the small pieces on the table. Her gaze immediately traveled to the nearby papyri with longing, but she forced her attention away. She needed to follow a routine, to put order to her disorganized thoughts. Or so she had been told.
Giving the area a quick survey, Juliet spied a piece of jewelry that would need to be properly arranged for display, so she considered beginning with it before moving on to the small pottery pieces. She reached out a hand toward the gold necklace only to hesitate. Certainly, such a valuable item must be secured. On the other hand, if she chose the papyri first, she would have a chance to see the ancient writings before anyone else.
Juliet’s heart picked up its pace at the thought of viewing the hieroglyphs alone, without the distraction of others, but her fierce desire was soon followed by guilt at her selfishness. Besides, the handling of the old papyri was a delicate procedure. Yet there were other examples of the ancient texts to be seen here, papyrus being only one surface used by the ancient Egyptians, who decorated everything from artwork and statuary to buildings with the mysterious pictures. Certainly no one would know if she took a look at some of those treasures far beyond price that were sitting here, waiting for someone to unlock their secrets...
Juliet drew in a deep breath, glanced at the golden rope dangling with delicately fashioned fish that would surely enchant any other woman, then back at a particularly interesting looking stela not far away, and she could not help herself. Discipline, she was often reminded, was not one of her strong suits and was to be cultivated. And she would cultivate it, Juliet vowed—just not today.
Stepping away from the table, she made her way carefully to the tall piece of limestone. In awe, she reached out a hand to touch the painted surface and felt an immediate connection to a past, long gone, when some scribe had created these images. They spoke to her, trying to convey his message, if only she could understand, and soon her cursory examination turned into serious study. As was her wont, she began copying the inscription as exactly as possible, the color to be added later.
So absorbed was she in her task that at first Juliet heard nothing beyond the scratching of her pencil in the stillness of the vast room. But gradually she became aware of another sound, a low rumble, like the drone of a bee, and Juliet glanced about her in puzzlement, for surely no insect could flourish in the dismal chill of a London autumn.
Juliet told herself it must be the wind, rushing through the cracks and crevices that even the tightest window could not fail to admit, though the early morning sun gleaming through the glass gave no hint of a blustery day. Shaking her head, she attempted to ignore the humming, but as though determined to gain her attention, it grew louder, forcing her to halt her work.
Kneeling on the floor, she stilled, listening intently, only to again be reminded of a bee, although a single insect could hardly be held responsible for this din. Mayhap an entire hive, Juliet amended, momentarily alarmed at the thought. She could not imagine how such a nest could have been imported into the house and was trying to think of a logical explanation when the sound became louder and more distinctive. No longer a simple buzz, it more resembled a moan, and Juliet felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Suddenly, her quiet morning of study turned eerie, the ancient objects surrounding her transforming the ballroom of her father’s town house into an alien landscape of ominous portents. Holding her body rigid, Juliet slowly turned her head to the left, in the direction of the sound. Although antiquities of various sizes and shapes littered the floor, her gaze settled unerringly upon that which occupied most of the area within her line of sight, the largest and most valuable of her father’s acquisitions, an alabaster mummy case.
A vast reliquary with a majesty above and beyond the more ordinary discoveries, it stood alone, as if even the loutish workmen dared not mar its gleaming surface, carved with a multitude of figures, precise and elegant. Indeed, the heavy piece was illuminated by a shaft of sunlight falling through the tall windows as though directed by some unseen hand, making it seem to glow from within.
Juliet stared for a moment, transfixed, before reason asserted itself. Obviously, the unusual effect was caused by a trick of light, coupled with the fact that the case was uncluttered and lay separate from the other items, except for a wooden crate that leaned against one side. Juliet frowned at the sight, and when a particularly odd noise assaulted her senses, she wondered if she ought to upright the container or remove it altogether. It appeared, for one wild moment, as though the mummy was making known its displeasure at the encroachment.
Juliet smiled shakily, for that flight of fancy was wholly unlike her usual clear thinking. Despite the elaborate mummifying process, the ancient Egyptians were gone, and their remains, though well preserved, had no sensate ability to observe or complain about their surroundings. Everything in the ballroom had been dead or discarded for centuries, yet Juliet’s gaze stole toward the table, where the severed hand, quite naturally, remained in its place.
Drawing a deep breath, Juliet took firm control of herself. Obviously, there was a reason for the continuing, if sporadic, sounds that were emanating from the mummy case, or rather, from that general direction. And, just as obviously, she would have to determine the source herself by gaining a closer look. She stood at once, for it never occurred to her to summon help or disturb her father. She was accustomed to taking care of herself, and, more importantly, of her father’s collection.
Straightening to her full height, Juliet stepped away from the stela and turned toward the ancient resting place of the dead. As she inched closer, the droning became louder, and her heart hammered with a sense of dread. Moving as quietly as possible, she realized she was holding her breath and released it slowly. Even though she tried firmly to restore order to her wayward thoughts, several highly illogical possibilities coursed through her brain—at least until she heard a new diversion, something that resembled a snort.
It was more bizarre than eerie, and sparked by curiosity, Juliet stopped beside the crate and looked down. Although unsure what she would discover, she certainly was not expecting a pair of boots. Modern in origin, dirty, and worn, they did not qualify as antiquities. Blinking, she followed the faded leather from scuffed toes up to where they ended in an equally disreputable pair of breeches sticking out of the straw that filled the crate.
For a moment, Juliet feared that a dead body, or at least one that was not mummified, had somehow been transported into the ballroom. But that outlandish supposition did not explain the noise that had interrupted her work. A corpse, whether preserved or not, could make no sounds. Sidestepping the footwear, she moved before the crate and peered into it, only to gasp aloud at the sight that met her gaze.
The owner of the boots was reclining inside as though in his own boudoir, and he was definitely not dead, for a hideous cacophony issued from him, which Juliet recognized as the mysterious sounds that had so disturbed her. No bees or errant winds or ghostly chants were at work here. Her precious labors had been cut short by the rude, nasal eruptions from this fellow, a behavior commonly known as snoring, but with which Juliet was not very familiar. Although once in awhile a footman might fall asleep at his post after a long night, she could hardly compare that gentle wheezing to this alarming din.
Hands upon her hips, Juliet leaned over to glare at the man with distaste. A thick lock of dark hair obscured his forehead, while the rest of his face sported a day’s growth of unshaven stubble in keeping with the dirty state of his garments. He probably was some denizen of the docks hired to help unload the shipment, but who could not be trusted even to provide that menial service.
Undoubtedly, he had found this niche early on and slept off a drunk instead. With workmen such as this one, it was no wonder the collection was in such disarray. Only such an ignorant ruffian would dare make a bed in something used to transport antiquities, then tilt it against a priceless artifact. The thought of that perfidy moved Juliet to action, and without pausing to summon a footman or even consider her course, she loosed her temper on the miscreant.
“You there! Come out at once!” she demanded, to no avail. The wretched creature slept on, snores punctuating his every breath. Juliet looked about for an object with which to poke him, but everything in the room was too precious for such a purpose, so she nudged him with her toe, encased in an elegant silk slipper.
“You, sir! Off with you!” she cried. When the fellow still didn’t stir, Juliet moved to the rear of the crate and pushed, trying to dislodge it, as well as its occupant. However, he must have been heavier than he looked because the sturdy wood beneath him wouldn’t budge. With a grunt, Juliet tried again, throwing all of her weight against the edge, and she felt a surge of triumph as the box tipped and fell forward, spilling its contents onto the parquet floor.
Or at least that’s what was supposed to happen. But as soon as the crate began to tilt, the slumbering figure erupted from the interior so swiftly that before Juliet could blink, he was crouching before her in a threatening stance, a knife in one outstretched hand. Startled by this sudden transformation from layabout to menace, she could only gape as dark eyes bored into her in a bold fashion more unsettling than the weapon he was holding.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded.
Juliet could well have asked the same, for his deep voice and well-modulated tones were hardly those of the slum dweller she had deemed him. Most likely, it was his speech that made her continue staring at him, instead of calling for a footman. Or maybe it was his brown eyes, the color of the dark, mysterious paints of the ancients, and rife with far more intelligence than she would have imagined. Obviously, this was no common sot. Yet he was dangerous, perhaps too dangerous to unleash upon the unsuspecting household help, Juliet thought, deciding to handle the man herself rather than cause the sort of furor her father despised.
Taking a deep breath, she asserted herself. “See here, you cannot sleep off your drunk in this house. Now, be off with you,” she said, waving in the general direction of the door.
Instead of obeying, the fellow looked as though her attempts to shoo him away were lunatic. Glancing quickly about, as if to assess his surroundings, he slipped the blade into the top of his boot, of all places. Then, with one smooth motion, he straightened to a height that made it plain to see why he had been so difficult to budge. He stood taller than six feet, towering above Juliet even though she was not particularly dainty. He was lean, but wide-shouldered and long-legged, and tossing his head back, he looked down at her out of a sun-bronzed face cut from the classic lines of an aristocrat, not a dockside drunkard.
Juliet’s lips parted in surprise, and her heart, which had remained steady throughout the brief encounter, suddenly started pounding again as though threatened by some unseen force. Although his knife was sheathed, the man seemed more dangerous now than before, and she realized that she was in the ballroom, bereft of servants, alone with a stranger—a tall, rather muscular and unsavory stranger. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, she studied him as she would a fine piece of sculpture, noticing things like the creases at the corners of his eyes, the thickness of his dark lashes, and the unruliness of his dark hair. All of it extremely unsavory, of course.
It was only when Juliet realized that she, too, was the subject of excessive scrutiny, that she found her voice once more. The man’s glare had turned into a gleam of assessment as he looked her up and down in a way that proclaimed him devoid of manners or morals. Flushing at her own lapse of breeding, Juliet cleared her throat.
“Be off with you, now, or I shall be forced to call the staff,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual crispness.
The rogue not only ignored her demand, but seemed to lose all interest in her. Lifting a tanned and long-fingered hand, he ran it through his dark hair as he glanced around the ballroom. “Where’s Carlyle?” he asked.
“The Earl of Carlyle? I hardly think that’s any of your concern,” Juliet said. Although she had disdained his brazen inspection of her, the sudden loss of his attention was equally frustrating. She might be accustomed to the subtle dismissals of the men in her life, but she refused to be ignored by this interloper.
“Now, see, here—” Juliet began, only to be cut off as the fellow turned away from her.
“Is there a place where I can wash up?” he asked, tossing the question over his shoulder.
“Certainly not!” Juliet said, hurrying after him as best she could while trying not to brush her long skirts against the artifacts. Luckily, he paused at the ballroom entrance, and there she caught him, reaching out to grasp an arm encased in worn, stained linen.
Though not particularly large, the arm was shockingly hard with muscle, and heat seeped through the cloth, warming her fingers. But neither observation startled Juliet as much as a tingling sensation in her hand, something vaguely akin to that excitement she felt when touching an artifact of great interest. Suddenly, the past and the future seemed to converge in one dizzying moment, and Juliet stared up into the stranger’s face.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
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