Eleanor nodded, even though the shine of her newfound opportunity had greatly diminished. Not that she’d expected Lord Charles to find her truly interesting. But he’d said she was lovely.
Was she so desperate to be found attractive? Especially with a woman like Lottie in the vicinity?
“Lady Eleanor, may I introduce Lord Charles?” Lottie said in her silky voice.
Eleanor lifted her eyes, but found Charles’s gaze harder to meet this time. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She heard the rigidity in her own voice and lifted her hand awkwardly.
Charles did his part with the same smoothness as before. Again and again and again he demonstrated his mastery over his part of the introduction. Again and again and again Eleanor found she could not with hers.
The flare of hope began to dim. She was lacking once more. Inadequate.
Lottie’s question from the prior lesson surfaced in her mind once more—the way it had many times since the query had been issued: What was Eleanor afraid of?
Eleanor had the answer. Or rather the answers. For there were many. After living behind the shield of her apathy for so long, to lower it was frightening. To be sincere was to be vulnerable, and to open herself to what rejection might do to that fragile, exposed part of her.
She could not stomach such embarrassment again. She could not be a failure.
Charles was home late that evening from Lottie’s. They’d worked with Lady Eleanor for longer than before. All to no avail. He was weary of introductions. Indeed, Eleanor’s disappointment in herself had been evident in the flush of her cheeks, despite her otherwise cool demeanor. And, though she was Westix’s daughter, he had not been able to help the swell of sympathy.
She had persisted, patiently facing each new introduction with a determined set to her brow. He’d wished he could give her the passion she so lacked, could encourage the flame of life in those green eyes.
Charles’s butler, Grimms, took his coat, hat and gloves as he entered Somersville House. “Good evening, Your Grace.” Grimms offered a formal bow. “I believe you’ll be pleased to learn that your father’s effects have arrived this evening. All have been placed within the library.”
Charles’s exhaustion fell away, to be immediately replaced by excitement. He hadn’t anticipated the arrival of his father’s items from the country estate for at least a few more days.
“Thank you, Grimms.”
The butler inclined his head, showing the glossy skin atop his head where his snow-white hair no longer grew, and strode off.
Charles immediately made his way to the library, and found a mountain of wooden crates beside one of the curio cabinets laden with his father’s treasures. At least twenty boxes, by his estimation. Going through the lot of them would take a considerable amount of time.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.” Thomas entered the room and held up a metal hook with a grin. “I heard you were back and thought you might require some assistance.”
“Your timing is impeccable as always, Thomas.”
Charles stepped back from the pile to give his valet better access. Thomas pulled down the top box with a grunt and shoved the point of the hook into the narrow gap under the lid. He pushed, and the top lifted off with a splintering crack.
Inside were stacks of papers and journals. Enough to take the night to get through—if Charles was lucky.
Thomas regarded the contents within the box and lifted his brows. “Fancy a brandy?”
Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I think that might help.”
His valet quit the room, leaving Charles alone with piles of correspondence and notations written in the Duke’s neat, narrow writing.
The first few layers were accounts for the country estate—a detailed overview of funds spent and rents collected. Those were followed by letters from museums and from scholars, thanking the Duke for his contributions to their institutions.
Charles stopped and took the time to read those, awash in his father’s greatness. Interesting how even when he had been alive Charles had always felt on the outside, looking in with awe.
Eventually he carefully set the correspondence in a stack to one side. Next he lifted a large journal from the box. The gilded compass on the front indicated that it had been part of the Adventure Club. Unfortunately, the pages were too large to fit the key.
Charles opened the cover, regardless. The spine creaked and crackled in protest at its disuse. Clearly the journal was older than the others he’d gone through previously. Indeed, the first page placed the previous Duke thirty years ago, somewhere off the Nile in Egypt. A careful perusal revealed only his father’s handwriting.
Charles strode to the desk, hesitated, and then reverently sat upon the chair his father had occupied for so many decades. The leather was cold beneath him, and stiff to the point of providing little comfort. He would have Thomas find him a more accommodating one the following day.
For the time being Charles settled back rigidly and perused the aged book. He’d read all the Adventure Club’s journals in his possession, and traveled their adventures vicariously. This was the oldest he’d seen, and the first written only by his father.
Thomas came in and placed the brandy before Charles. “Shall I open another box?”
Charles shook his head. “This will do for now. Thank you, Thomas.”
The valet nodded and left Charles alone with the journal.
The brandy remained untouched while he delved into the words written by his father.
The pyramids rose before me, dotting the horizon with triangles, their tips pointing toward the sun. These wondrous fossils of an age long dead are rife with treasures beyond my wildest dreams, ready for presenting to England.
Thus far my findings have been well received, at least by the English. It would appear there are some within Egypt who begrudge my presence. People who declare the excavations pillaging and deem these sites sacred.
For those unable to apply reason, certain documents can be replicated to allow us the access we require.
It was a perfectly constructed plan from one of our members—a man who has proved himself a genius in his approach to dealing with these obstacles as well as finding treasure.
He shall surely be a worthy asset among us, especially in gaining access to the most guarded treasures.
Charles paused in momentary confusion. Surely his father didn’t mean he’d bribed people and forged documentation? There had been many instances when Charles had heard descriptions of finding tombs and temples long-ago abandoned and left to fall in on themselves in the middle of nowhere.
Charles’s father had been a good man, with a name honorably built on the findings of great pieces which he’d shared with England. He’d been a hero—one who would never have stooped to such low levels as deceit and theft.
Not his father.
Charles read through the rest of the journal, which described the findings within the tomb in considerable detail. No further suggestion or implication was made of any untoward acts.
The absence of such eased the twist in Charles’s stomach. Surely his father’s earlier words had been written merely as a precaution, in the event that he’d need to go beyond the rules a little in order to bring an item home. The Duke had been an honorable man whose efforts had always been morally sound.
Charles closed the book and lifted the glass of brandy. He drank half in one great swallow before settling back in the seat. His mind nudged