Wrapped (18 page)

He shook his head. “I don’t think I would have missed that.”

“But couldn’t this be him here?” I asked, pointing to the top edge of the Stone, where the piece had broken away in a jagged hunk. Below the edge, a curved line, leading into the bottom of what appeared to be an open mouth, was plainly visible. Caedmon leaned closer, inspecting the incomplete hieroglyph.

“No . . . ,” he began, fumbling in his pocket for the jackal’s head. I snatched it from his grip and held it to the bottom outline. The contours matched exactly. It was my jackal’s head in miniature. I gave a short, explosive giggle and turned to see Caedmon’s cheeks burning.

“Of all the chuckleheaded things,” he said sheepishly. “I only focused on the complete characters.”

“Sometimes a puzzle requires a pair of fresh eyes,” I consoled him.

“And my eyes are anything but that at this point,” he said, still embarrassed.

I wanted to take his hand. I wanted to reassure him that anyone could have made the same mistake. I wanted to promise him that we would prevail. Instead I made a promise that I could keep.

“I’m coming tonight to help you.”

I was pleased more than I could express that he did not argue.

He did say we needed to leave now—the supervisors would be back in moments—and led me from the chambers and back toward the hall. As we rounded the corner, a living, breathing person far more frightening than any of the mummies blocked our path.

“What is this?” spat the figure, clad in a severe black suit, a polished leather briefcase tucked under his arm.

Caedmon’s face went ashen. “Mr. Banehart, I—”

The man looked even ghastlier than I recalled from having met him last spring at a lecture I attended with Father.

“You
know
these areas are restricted!” Banehart seethed, edging closer, his pale skin aglow in the dusky light. “And to bring a
woman
back here,” he added angrily, looking to my face for the first time. A hint of recognition seemed to spark in his eyes. I fanned it into flame.

“Mr. Banehart, please don’t be angry with”—I turned to Caedmon and looked at him as if I didn’t know him—“with Mr. . . . Mr. . . . ?”

“Stowe,” Caedmon squeaked finally.

“Our dear friend Lord Showalter often encourages me to see the collection, and since his party I confess I’ve been even more curious. I wandered back here by mistake, and Mr. Stowe was good enough to help me find my way back to the exhibits.”

“Forgive me, miss, but I have a difficult time believing that someone like yourself—that is, someone who can
read
—could have failed to notice the posting on the only door leading into this facility,” he said with carefully controlled menace.

“Very true, sir. But I found the door ajar, and I confess was so taken with the mystery and beauty of the artifacts that a long hallway and tumbled storeroom seemed to fit right in with the stories I was concocting in my head.”

“Of all the nonsense—,” he began.

“I’m sure that were I with Lord Showalter I’d be granted access to these rooms?” I asked after he continued staring at me.

Banehart forced a polite smile. “Of course. Please give him my regards, Miss Wilkins. You are both welcome to return
together
.”

“I am very grateful, sir,” I said as evenly as I could.

Banehart glared at Caedmon. “Escort her out, and then report to my office.”

As he stalked away, I breathed, letting the adrenaline ebb as Caedmon took my elbow and pushed me down the hall.

“Stowe!” Mr. Banehart snapped. I froze.

“Yes, sir?” Caedmon said quietly.

“This came for you by messenger. I don’t know how I let the brat persuade me to ferry it to you, but here it is.” He held out a scrap of paper, forcing Caedmon to walk back to him to get it. Once he had, we continued toward the main door and out of earshot.

Banehart was as awful as I remembered, and I found myself thinking how lovely it might be if he did indeed turn out to be the culprit. How convenient it would be to have Banehart proven a traitor and Caedmon revealed as a hero simultaneously. It might even elevate Caedmon far enough to make him admissible to society.

I was theorizing just how respected he might have to be in order to merit no objection from Mother and Father when Caedmon stopped abruptly beside me.

He held the note out. “It’s from the public hospital.”

My heartbeat quickened.

“Deacon’s there. He’s . . . been attacked . . . and is asking for me.”

“Oh, no!”

“I have to go,” Caedmon said, hurtling toward the door.

“No!” I said. “Banehart won’t stand for it. You’re already going to have to answer for my being in the restricted area!”

“But—”

“No. We’ll go tonight . . . together.”

“But he has no one else,” Caedmon argued.

“And he of all people knows how important it is that we continue the search for the standard. And if you lose your position here—which is sure to happen if you disappear now—we’ll have no access.”

He started to protest.

“You
know
what he would say,” I said.

Caedmon nodded weakly.

“I’ll meet you at ten,” I said firmly, “at his rooms near the Tower.”

Chapter Fiffeen

“Honestly, Agnes, you eat like your brother,” Mother complained.

“If we weren’t in such an infernal hurry,” I said around a mouthful of bread, “I could slow down and be a bit more ladylike. I think Julia and her mother will understand if we’re late.”

“A lady is never late,” Mother replied.

“A lady doesn’t bolt down food, either, but that’s what you’re forcing me to do!”

“Whatever you are in private matters less than what you are in public, though to have mastery over both arenas is preferable. But
you
cut this fine, so you’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

I nodded, swallowed, wiped my mouth, and followed her out the door.

“You’re so completely distracted, Agnes,” Mother said as we rounded the gate at the front walk.

“It’s a busy time,” I said simply.

“Don’t tell me about it,” she said. “I had my season as well. And I know how busy it is. And believe you me, shepherding you through your first season is almost as trying as my own debut.”

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“But it isn’t that only”—she paused to tug the cap sleeve of my dress into place—“you seem so disconnected. Even when David was here, your mind always seemed elsewhere.”

It was. It was in the museum with Caedmon.

“I can imagine how Showalter’s attentions have your head spinning,” she said, now pulling at my other shoulder’s sleeve. “Which reminds me: I sent him a note inviting him to take Father’s place with us at the opera this evening. He wrote saying he’d be delighted to escort us.”

Oh, not the opera now. I’d have to figure a way out of
that
in order to meet Caedmon this evening. “But we’re already engaged to spend the morning with him tomorrow—”

“The man knows how to seize an opportunity, Agnes. Something I hope you’ll take a lesson in,” she said, looking sideways at me. “He’s indicated that he’s very eager to speak with your father upon his return.”

I stopped walking altogether. “What do you mean?”

She quit fussing with my sleeves. “Well, he can’t very well ask you for your hand until securing your father’s permission. I suspect if your father had not been called away so unexpectedly, and had David not come home, maybe we’d already be planning an announcement,” she said, almost cooing with triumph.

Planning an announcement? To marry? I found I suddenly had to remind myself to breathe.

I didn’t want to accept a proposal, much less marry. Not yet at least. But it was more than that.

A snippet of
Sense and Sensibility
winged its way into my mind.
“I want no proof of their affection, but of their engagement I do.”
The words slipped out in Spanish before I realized what I was doing.
“Quiero ninguna prueba de su afecto, sino de su compromiso lo hago,”
I whispered.

My mother took my chin in her hand and gently turned my face to meet her eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right, Agnes? You look a trifle peaked.”

“Just a little tired,” I said, wishing my anxiety would manifest itself in a way less obvious than nervous eruptions of A Lady passages. But I had plenty to be anxious about. I was flattered by Showalter’s attentions, even if it was a little surprising how easy making a match had turned out to be. But perhaps that was part of the problem. And what of that sinking feeling that I felt when I saw him, or was about to see him? I thought of how excited I’d been to meet Caedmon at the museum . . . how excited I was to meet him again tonight.

It was comfortable with Showalter. Easy knowing how much he professed to like me. He was an excellent match. But he did not excite me. He did not vex me. He did not draw my thoughts back to him when I was away from him, despite the magnetism others claimed he possessed.

He was not Caedmon. The realization struck me with such force that the line popped out again, this time in Dutch.
“Ik wil geen bewijs van hun genegenheid, maar ook van hun betrokkenheid ik doe.”

“You
are
agitated,” Mother said, new concern lacing her voice. “That translating habit always worsens when you’re working yourself up about something.”

I swallowed hard. “I suppose it is all a bit overwhelming.”

Her eyes softened. “I think a nap is in order after we return home. I’m sure Mrs. Overton will understand that we must cut short our visit.”

She pulled me by the hand through the Overtons’ gate and up the front step as the bread and butter I’d gulped down threatened to make a reappearance on the Park’s most fashionable street.

“I know you’ll feel better after all is settled with Showalter,” she said, pulling the rope for the bell, the sound muted by the leaded glass.

“Do you think he loves me?” I asked Mother abruptly, surprised as she was that I’d posed such a question.

Mother hesitated. “Agnes—”

“Could he?” I asked again.

She took my hand. “Love grows, dear. And I’ve no doubt he’ll find even more to love in you than any man could hope to.”

She wasn’t any surer than I was. But it didn’t bother her. And for the first time I began to feel a bit annoyed that she’d never once asked what
I
thought, what
I
felt.

“But I’ve scarcely even met any other suitable men . . . the season is just starting. What if there’s someone . . . someone more—”

“Don’t be absurd, Agnes! Lord Showalter is by far the most desirable match—all of London knows it. What more could you want? And what more could
he
want? You are witty, talented, and beautiful. Any man would clamor to make an early engagement with you.”

It was hard to think on what Mother was telling me. That love was secondary—both in order and importance when making the choice that I would live with for the rest of my life. The line crept up again, this time in Greek.
“
.”