Bound by Your Touch (2 page)

He crested the stairs to discover the party had spilled out of the salon. Elise Strathern was weaving her way down the corridor, Christian Tilney nipping at her heels. Colin Muir, scoundrel Scot, was trying to feed liquor to the stone bust of one of James's forebears, while his audience—the Cholomondley twins, who else?— giggled appreciatively.

Inside
die
yellow room, things were no more civilized. Glass crunched beneath his feet and the air held a stinking miasma of opium and cigar smoke. Someone had broken the palm fronds that screened the musicians from the gathering, and damn if the violinist did not have a cummerbund tied around his head as he manfully sawed out the latest music hall ditty. The flutist had given up, and was watching with avid amazement as Mrs. Sawyer turned a jig atop the banquet table—beneath which the cellist, and his instrument, were sleeping in a pool of punch.

And there was Nello, arguing in the far corner with Dalton. Elizabeth was right (but she was always attentive to detail in this one regard: namely, the idiotic regard she felt for Nello). He'd lodged one of the parlormaids beneath his arm, and she was thin-lipped, squirming. James picked his way through the debris and came up just as Nello lifted his fist for the first punch.

James caught him by the wrist. "Now, now, children."

"Damn his eyes, Sanburne! I'll have at him! A cheating swot, am I?"

"Just about," said Dalton, grinning drunkenly. "Why, you swived that Egyptian wench so hard that Sanburne just about puked to death from the boat rocking."

"You little—"

James wrapped his forearm around Nello's neck and hauled backward. The parlormaid shrieked and fell to her bum, from which position, James ascertained with a glance, she crawled toward safer quarters. "As for that," he said into Nellos ear, "you
are
a cheat, and if you don't believe me, Lizzie will set you straight."

Nello abrupdy ceased struggling. "Lizzie .. . ?"

"Indeed," Elizabeth said, coming round to confront him. "You pig!"

James loosened his hold. "Just full of snap, ain't she?"

Indeed, her face was pinched with rage. She stepped forward, her hands raised over her head—and in them, James spotted something he'd been meant to deliver this morning.
His Egyptian funerary stela!

"Lizzie, no!"

The rock slab smashed down on Nellos shoulder. The awful cracking sound caused even the violinist to falter. With a cry of agony, Nello dropped to his knees. "My shoulder!"

"Broken it," Dalton predicted, and slid down the wall to nap.

"Dear God!" James pried the stela from Elizabeth's fingers. He turned it over, searching anxiously for damage. He'd been coddling the thing for days, toasting it with evening brandy, gloating over the bitter envy his father was sure to feel at the sight of it. And Lizzie used it to
bludgeon
someone!

"Have I broken it?" she asked. She was looking down at Nello, a curiously blank expression on her face.

"No," he decided, on a long breath of relief. "It looks intact."

"His shoulder, you buffoon, not your precious rock."

"My precious—?
Priorities,
Elizabeth!"

She snorted. "Oh, stuff. My priorities do not include your foolish antics with your father."

James grinned. His rather, indeed. Moreland would be at the lecture by now, blissfully ignorant of what was in store for him. There was no way he'd be able to resist this piece. "Lizzie, love, your priorities have nothing to do with me. Now look here," he said more briskly, "be a dear and send round for the doctor. Also, tell Gudge he may set up Nello in the blue bedroom." Nello moaned again, and James bent to eye him. "Perhaps with a very large bucket," he added. Old boy was looking rather green.

"Don't go," Nello managed. "I need ... help."

Lizzie was more shrill. "You're
leaving met
With Nello nearly
dead?”

With a reassuring pat to the stela, James rose. "Never. Friendship is eternal, etcetera. But I have an appointment at the Archaeological Institute, you might recall." A month in Egypt, spent suffering seasickness off the edge of a houseboat that—Dalton was correct—rocked like a pendulum. Countless letters to and from Port Said. A fortune spent on various, ultimately second-rate antiques. Thousands of pounds to finally secure the right one. Six months of work leading to this moment, and he'd almost forgotten! Phineas certainly had a way with the toxins.

"Oh, of course," Lizzie said, "the
Archaeological Institute.
If Nello were dead, I doubt you should miss your appointment!"

For Nello? "You might be right." He gave Lizzie a quick kiss on the cheek, then picked his way out of the salon, eager to depart before she started crying again.

Lydia had managed to keep her voice from shaking. Nor had anyone yet stood to decry her as a lunatic.

Sophie was falling asleep—her hat tipped, abruptly righted when Antonia poked her, then began tipping again—but that was not unusual. Most importantly, Lord Ayresbury, in the front row, was listening with every sign of interest. All in all, she thought cautiously, it was going very . . . well.

The hope shed been repressing for days swelled and burst free. It washed through her at such dizzying speed that she actually stuttered from the impact. "If—ah, if my fathers findings are correct, then this strongly suggests ..."

A door slammed open at the back of the hall, admitting a much-rumpled gentleman. The sight startled her into a pause. It was coming on noon, and he was wearing evening attire, black tailcoat and bow tie.

Some of the audience turned to mark his advance. He was trailed by a footman in garish crimson livery, who cradled a greatcoat in one arm, and some sort of slab in the other.

An eccentric latecomer, no doubt. No need to feel uneasy. Lydia adjusted her spectacles and focused again on the text. "This strongly suggests that Tel-el-Maskhuta was
not
the location of the first stop in the Exodus."

A snort issued from the fat, ginger-haired man seated next to Lord Ayresbury. Lydia did not look up; it would only rattle her. For the last hour, he had been making these contemptuous noises. The part of her mind not occupied with her lecture had already prepared the condolences she would offer for his poor health. They would be introduced later, she assumed. Papa had written a long letter about what to expect:
"Hospitality, tempered with suspicion and random pockets of hostility,
to which the director will steer you directly at the conclusion of your speech. Mold your spine in steel, and give them what-for!"

Sweat beaded her nape as she fumbled for the last page. She had wrestled with this conclusion for days, determined to phrase Papa's findings in the most diplomatic manner possible. His data was sound, but it required them to take a
very
strong line against scholars who claimed to have located Pithom and Succoth. Some of those men were in the audience today, and if they decided to jeer, it would not help Papa's bid for funding.

Steel,
she reminded herself. Lord Ayresbury was tremendously influential with the Egypt Exploration Fund, and rumor held him to be a man who appreciated innovation. With his endorsement, they would certainly secure EEF funding. Papa needed only two more seasons to prove beyond all doubt that he had located the
true
site of the first stop on the Exodus. And then, why, all his worries would be over. There'd be no need for him to continue in the antiquities trade. So many funds would pour in for his projects, they'd have to turn
down
offers of support.

The thought bolstered her. He had wanted this for so long, now. And she would be the one to achieve it for him. She licked her dry lips. "Now, if I may—"

"Aha!
There
you are!"

The recent arrival had drawn up halfway down the aisle. He was addressing someone seated in one of the rows. A murmur ran through the theater.

"Stand up, then," the interloper said. "No use skulking."

Lydia's stomach sank. It had all been going
too
well, hadn't it? She should have known not to count her chickens beforehand.

Of course, her wise father had foreseen this.
"And if, my dear, some ill-bred ruffian should take the room from you
—
why then, you must simply take it back."

She drew a breath and flattened her hands on the lectern to brace herself. "If I may," she called.

He glanced up, looking startled. As though he could possibly have missed that there was a
meeting
in session! He stared at her as if trying to place her. Her heart drumming (for she had no practice in "taking back" a room; as an activity, it sounded alarmingly martial), she returned his regard. He was an extraordinarily tawny creature, with a firm jaw and a long nose. No doubt he was considered very handsome by those who liked exhaustion: the shadows beneath his eyes suggested sleepless nights. "Not right now," he said to her, starting to turn away. Then, looking back, he ran an eye down her and added thoughtfully, "But later, by all means."

Strangely, his impertinence calmed her. An Adonis might be rare and baffling, but she knew how to handle the commonplace blackguard. "Perhaps, sir, you might allow me to finish my lecture first!"

But she was addressing the backs of heads now; his attention had moved on, and he had taken her audience with him.
Papa's audience!

She watched in disbelief as he said, "All right, then," to an elderly gendeman sitting at the edge of the row. "The mountain will come to Mohammed." He beckoned to the footman, who stepped forward, holding out a slab that had been tucked beneath his arm.

Several members of the society stood to have a look, Lord Ayresbury among them. :

The elderly man rose to his feet. "What is the meaning of this, you devil?"

"That, sir, you will have to tell
me.
"The interlopers nod prompted the footman to deposit the rock at the older man's feet. "My stela. Not to be confused with
Stella,
whom you have permanently sequestered from view. Anyway, I have no idea what it is, but I'm assured it's quite valuable. And
very
rare."

There was a moment of rapt silence from the onlookers as the footman arranged the piece to his master's satisfaction. Her lecture had turned into a carnival show. Lydia found herself looking through a curious, filmy haze, which she realized with horror must be tears. Dear God, to cry like a babe, in
public?
Suddenly grateful for the crowd's distraction, she dashed a wrist across her eyes. This was too silly of her; she must behave with dignity.

Oh, but hope died far less pleasandy than it was born. It loosed a terrible death rattle, just above one's heart.

"I say," cried a man in the far corner. He pushed his way into the aisle, occasioning a chorus of grunts and protests from those seated in his row. "Is that
Nefertitii"

The interloper considered the slab. "Might be," he said. Didn't he even know? These pretty men were always the worst sort of dilettante. "You mean the one snuggling up to the chap in the . . . ?" He sketched some mysterious shape in the air above his head.

Ah.
A conical hat of the pharaonic type. Lydia braced herself.

Indeed: direct chaos. Chairs toppled, programs went skidding, and exclamations and speculation rent the air as three quarters of her erstwhile listeners swarmed forth to view the object.

A couple of those who remained in their seats spared her a sympathetic look. She managed a polite smile in return. The redheaded gentleman smirked, and she turned her face away, giving him a cut that even his beady eyes would remark. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him whisper something to his female companion, an immaculately turned-out blond about Lydia's age. In reply, her thin, patrician lips curved slighdy.

Lydia fought the urge to roll her eyes. She was very familiar with the meaning of such looks. At twelve years old, it signified that your bookishness was boring and your short skirts outmoded. At seventeen, that your interest in heathen civilizations made you mannish. At twenty-two, that you'd said something odd and no wonder your brother-in-law had jilted you for your sister. And at twenty-six ... ? At twenty-six, Lydia was too mature to care for its significance. She toed the line of acceptable behavior, and that was all she owed to polite society. Certainly she asked nothing of it in return.

Silently she began to stack the pages of her speech. Her fingers were trembling. Pathetic.
Orientalists!
She had seen it all her life: one mention of Pharaohs, and men reverted to the schoolroom. Even Papa, the most doting husband in history, had broken vigil at Mama's sickbed when news came of some block statue arriving from Cairo. Lydia had sat in the darkened bedroom— one hand on her mother's forehead, the other switching between Sophie's shoulder and Antonia's small, trembling fingers—and listened to the rumble of his carriage, receding down the drive. She'd only been sixteen, and certainly no one had realized that Mamas fever would be fatal. Nevertheless, the future had suddenly seemed obvious. Papa might support her studies, but she could not count on his undivided attention. Not unless she, too, courted his mistress, Lady Egypt.

Well, at least Papa's passion was grounded in science. As far as she could tell, most other Egyptologists used archaeology as a ruse to disguise an unmanly fascination with shiny baubles. She eyed the interloper again. He had stepped out of the crowd and was watching, with a pleased smile only partially concealed by the finger tapping at his upper lip, the skirmish he'd caused. She could see how gewgaws might appeal to this one. His fingers were layered in a surplus of jeweled rings. Pinned at his lapel was a gaudy turquoise and silver watch. And surely he'd had to sit for
hours
before his valet managed to coax that wave of sun-striped hair to fall
just
so over his brow. A peacock. A washed-out peacock had ruined her lecture! Worse than that—had ruined, in one fell swoop, the basis of every plan she and Papa had hatched!