Hatshepsut's Collar (The Artifact Hunters #2) (7 page)

ara sat slumped on the top step, her arms wrapped around her knees. The airship disappeared from view, and beyond in the street, life continued as normal. At some stage Miguel pushed a coffee into her hands and she sipped at the drink without ever really tasting the rich flavour. Her mind spun in a multitude of directions.

This mess is so deep, ten night soil men couldn’t dig me out.

Eventually, the dregs of her coffee chilled and her bare feet turned numb from prolonged exposure to the ice cold stone steps.
Wallowing in self-pity won’t solve anything.
She rose and ventured back into the house to survey the extent of the damage.

Jackson awaited her inside. “What shall we do, doll?” he asked. Picking up a splinter of front door, he used the sliver of wood to pick something from between his teeth.

Miguel leaned on the broom handle; he had swept away the remnants of the shot chandelier, so she wouldn’t tread on broken glass with her bare feet. The gathered men watched with anxious faces, looking to her for a direction and a course of action.

Jackson’s question stopped Cara dwelling and brought her mind to the more immediate problem. She surveyed the broken house, relieved they stopped the soldiers before they destroyed the old paintings. Some things were priceless and could never be replaced, unlike the front door or glass in the windows.

“We roll up our sleeves and tidy up this mess. Send someone to the hangar for more men. And find someone to fix that.” She pointed to the massive front doors laying in shattered pieces over the doorjamb. “Something temporary for now, but I want metal, ultimately, like in the Pit. And we need new glass in the parlour windows.”

“And Lyons?” He flicked his impromptu toothpick back onto the pile of rubble.

Cara gave the henchman a wry look. “He’s not going anywhere is he? Let him cool his heels while we clean this up first. I need to figure out what to do next. But send someone with warm clothes and boots for him; he wasn’t wearing much when they took him away.”

Jackson nodded his head and started barking orders at the other men. Miguel approached Cara and laid a hand on her arm. She turned weary eyes to him.

“He will be all right. He always lands on his feet.” He gave her a warm smile.

“It’s not his feet that worry me, Miguel, but his neck.” She gave him a sad smile and squeezed his fingers. “I do have a task for you though. There’s a small package to be delivered to Sara Collins’ hands. I can at least clear away that loose thread.”

She climbed the stairs, dreading what she would find on the first floor. She walked the corridor to the ornate carved doors protecting the bedroom she shared with Nate.

The exotic sandalwood doors he stole from an Indian temple, stood open. Cara surveyed the scene within and wanted to collapse against the wall and cry. Too much had happened today. She found out her father sold her like cattle at market, and before she could vent her rage, Nate was hauled off for treason. What really worried her was she had no idea of his guilt or innocence.

The bedroom was devastation. They had pulled the mattress from the oversized bed and slashed it open, dragging stuffing and feathers around the room. Dressers were tipped over; drawers were askew and spilled their contents over the floor. Cara’s underwear was strewn about as though they rummaged through her drawers as a sheer act of wanton destruction and no more. Items from Nate’s travels around the globe had been smashed on the floor. An African tribal mask was trampled into kindling wood, a prayer carpet torn into strips. A delicate ivory statue from Japan shattered on the fire hearth. The violence all so pointless.

This wasn’t a search. It was an act of terror designed to tell Nate he can be reached. That he’s not untouchable.
The thought preyed on her mind. The act unlike something the queen would order, but rather someone motivated by revenge.

She reached out to pick up chemises, corsets, and stockings, her thoughts in as much turmoil as the room. She could put the room back to order, but the scars would remain. Nate had powerful enemies, and she had no idea why or what he had done. So much of his life was hidden from her and she realised how little she truly knew about him.

By lunch time, some semblance of order was restored. They returned furniture to the correct way up. Two piles grew on the lawn; one with objects beyond repair, the other, items to be sent away and fixed. The remains of the enormous chandelier in the entranceway was lowered and deemed possible to salvage; only three of the massive arms shot off. The myriad of crystals could be replaced and the arms welded back to the main structure. One of the hangar crew hung temporary front doors, and tradesmen started arriving with new mattresses, small furnishings, and glass for broken windows. The house was tidier, but emptier.

That left Cara to contemplate a far bigger mess, and one with no easy fix. Nate sat in the Tower, awaiting the queen’s leisure. The captain had dismissed her as Nate’s doxie and she reluctantly admitted her position was a tenuous one. She was invisible to society as his mistress, not that social position ever concerned her. She had no need for their approval and was happy to thumb her nose at convention and the ton. However, Nate was going to need assistance she wasn’t sure she could procure. A lump inside her corset reminded her things didn’t have to be that way. She had another role she could play, one which would ensure the people she needed to talk to would sit up and listen.

“Double crap,” she cried, throwing up her hands. “I’ve been stalked, trapped, sold, and painted into a corner.”

The next morning, the mess didn’t look any better. Cara took the carriage to the City and Threadneedle Street, alighting at the offices of Hamish McToon, just along the road from the mighty Bank of England. Her hands played with the fabric of the dress, smoothing the taffeta down over her hips unable to sit quietly in her lap. She fidgeted with either the dress or her hat, or anything to keep herself occupied while she waited in the calm and serene sitting room. There was something about waiting for a solicitor that made her skin crawl as though she was in trouble, or about to be. Past experience had proven that, and this time was no different.

The door opened and the quiet secretary ushered Cara into a plush office. Hamish McToon was younger than she expected, but with a bald palette it was hard to pin an exact age on him. His face appeared to be trying to compensate for the absence of hair up top; he possessed the most extraordinary black sable eyebrows she had ever seen. He was as well schooled as she expected, betraying no hint of surprise at seeing her. He merely indicated a chair for her and waited until she was seated. Only then did he take his place, tent his fingers, and waited with the patience of Job for her to begin.

She wasn’t sure where to start, so hedged around the topic. “You know why I’m here?”

“I believe it concerns Viscount Lyons.” The words carried the faint trace of a Scottish burr as though he had spent many years from his original home. His voice made her think of whisky and heather and increased his appeal.
A sexy voice will get you every time.

She let out a long held breath. “He’s been arrested for treason and taken to the Tower. He said to seek you out, and to listen to your advice.”

“I am aware of his arrest, that news was conveyed to me yesterday. I already have people constructing the defence, should he ever come to trial. Although it would help if we knew the actual detail of the charges.”

Cara blinked, she should have guessed that sort of news would spread like wild fire. The ton would no doubt be gossiping over their little breakfast sausages about Nate’s imprisonment. Miguel reported that Sara Collins was disinterested in the return of her engagement ring and more concerned about Nate’s activities, and fired numerous questions at him. “What do we do?”

The tented fingers slipped down to the desk, and caressed the dark green leather inlay. “Firstly, you need to obtain an interview with Viscount Lyons to see what light he can shed on his current predicament. To do that, you will need to get past the Constable of the Tower. Once we have more information, or a direction of inquiry, we can strategize.”

“All right then.” A plan, something her mind could grasp and cling to. Cara made to rise, assuming the interview were over.

McToon coughed politely into his hand. “However…” He left the word hanging.

Cara rolled her eyes and dropped back into the seat.
Here comes the bit I don’t want to hear.

“You are unlikely to be admitted to the Tower as Miss Cara Devon,
companion
of Viscount Lyons.” He arched his eyebrows and then went back to patiently regarding her. Cara wondered if this was what a praying mantis’ dinner felt like; the wide eyed, unblinking stare waiting for her to try and make a dash for freedom. She turned his words over. The encounter with the captain of the guard still fresh in her mind, as was the impact of his back handed strike. She bore a swollen and cut lip, although her ability to heal quickly would see it gone in another day.

They won’t admit Nate’s doxie. As his lover I’m invisible to society.

Cara tried to swallow, her dry throat impeding the action. Cornered, with no other option, she knew what she had to do. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and wouldn’t allow the words out that she needed to articulate. “What reception would Nate’s viscountess receive?”

The corners of his mouth pulled back in a grin. “Should the viscount have a wife, then she could not be refused access to either the constable, or her husband. The Lady Lyons would also be in a position to take the viscount’s case direct to the queen, should it prove necessary.”

Her hand shook as she fussed with the satchel and extracted the marriage certificate. She gave the solicitor an apologetic glance when he raised his eyebrows at the scrunched up piece of paper. The two rings fell free of their cage and rested on the desk. The smaller ring nestled within the protecting embrace of the larger.

“And so the chains grow ever tighter,” she murmured under her breath as her fingers smoothed the paper, trying to remove the creases. “What do I need to do?” she said with another rasping swallow of her dry throat. A glass of water appeared at her elbow and she took a thankful draught to restore moisture. “How do I make it official?”

The solicitor picked up a pen and handed it to Cara. “You have only to sign.”

She licked her lips. “That’s all? Just my signature?”

He nodded. “Three years ago, an entry was made in the marriage register at the Courts of Justice. It contains the pertinent information, except the name of the bride. Should you sign, I will ensure the entry is made complete. The late addition will be indistinguishable from the rest of the notation, and to the world, you have been the Viscountess Lyons for the past three years.”

The fiercely independent part of her brain huddled in a corner, keening
no, no, no
. Cara grasped the pen and signed her name before bravery fled or common sense returned.

Only as he dusted the name with a sprinkle of sand to set the ink, did she realise she would never again be Cara Devon. Even if she divorced Nate, society would demand she retain his name.

Ownership by a man stamped forever on my soul.

The solicitor pushed the smaller ring toward her. She closed her eyes, took a large breath of air, and then savoured her last single lungful.

If he’s pulled this stunt just to get me to wear his ring, I’ll kill him myself.

Exhaling, she picked up the ring and slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand. “So he owes me three years’ worth of anniversary presents?”

McToon’s face rearranged itself into a smile. “As the viscount’s wife, obviously his line of credit is now at your full disposal.”

“And how extensive is his line of credit?”

The smile broadened, and his eyes crinkled, showing he laughed often, an unexpected side to the dry solicitor. “More extensive than you can imagine.”

Cara gave him a mischievous grin, warming up a fermenting idea. “Oh, don’t be too sure about that. I have a very vivid imagination.”

“Perhaps I may be of some further assistance.” He drew a small business card from the plain silver holder on his desk, and wrote a name on the back. He held the slip out to Cara.