Wrapped (4 page)

Then a metal edge emerged from the cloth in front of me, like a scallop shell half buried in the sand. My pulse raced as the undeniable excitement of the moment took hold. I glanced up to see if anyone else had seen it yet, but they were all still attending carefully to Showalter’s impromptu lecture about Rupert’s ankh. So no one noticed as I pulled the item from the wrapping. No one but me saw the object breathe fresh air for the first time in a thousand years. The feeling was unexpectedly thrilling, and I could only imagine what it might feel like to unearth whole temples forgotten to time, like that Swiss man had found at Abu Simbel a couple of years ago.

I started to call to the others, but they were listening raptly as our host delivered a detailed description of a small scroll found by Lady Kensington at the shoulder of the corpse.

I left them to Showalter’s performance and studied the treasure I’d unwrapped. It was an intricately carved outline, shaped like a dog’s head, made of what appeared to be iron owing to the rust flaking from the corners. It fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, the snout tipping out at the first knuckle of my ring finger, its ears extending to the base of my thumb. The detail along the edges was extraordinarily precise, each tooth in the parted muzzle sharp, the ruff at the back of the neck bristling. A small scrap of linen clung to the rim, secured with a knot too tight for me to work out easily. The characters printed upon the linen there were even more impenetrable. A different sort of hieroglyph, I reasoned, but just as unreadable as those on Lady Kensington’s scroll.

Showalter was concluding his lecture, and I knew my discovery and I would next be on display. I stared at the sad little dog’s head.

And I felt pity for it in a way that surprised me. Pity that it had been plucked from its own quiet life inside the wrappings, would now be subject to scrutiny, have its value and utility assessed.

It wasn’t fair. Any of it.

I checked the crowd again, especially the young scribe from the museum. He was frantically jotting notes, straining to get a closer glimpse of the ankh.

Showalter had said we could keep what we found, hadn’t he?

And hadn’t our friends and neighbors seen enough of Showalter standing over me this evening to keep tongues wagging and minds whirling for weeks?

And hadn’t I had as much attention as I could endure for one evening?

Yes, yes, and yes.

Satisfied, I closed my palm around the trinket and tucked it into the bodice of my dress.

Chapter Three

I’d only ever stolen biscuits from the kitchen at home, so I was surprised that I felt as cool in that moment as the bit of ironwork hiding in my dress.

And it was this realization that thrilled me even more than the act itself.

To stand amid a throng of people and have a secret. To have done something just beneath their very noses was simply the most delicious feeling.

Not that I had in the strictest sense actually stolen it. If I was guilty of any theft, it was merely that I robbed the other partygoers of a glimpse of the little object.

I slipped nearer the knot of admirers poring over the scroll. Lord Showalter, brow furrowed, announced, “No, the hieroglyphs are unfamiliar.”

“Has the Crown made any progress in that area?” Lady Marbury, the oldest and most respected member of the Park’s grand society, asked gravely. Britain had recovered the Rosetta Stone from Napoleon’s troops after his defeat at the Nile some ten years ago. I’d seen it at the museum and knew like the rest of the world that it represented the best hope for eventually unlocking the hieroglyphics adorning the many artifacts now populating London, that it might hold the keys to unlock the secrets of ancient Egypt.

“No, my lady, but my people at the museum assure me we are making progress.”

Lord Showalter was as avid a collector of experts as he was of Egyptian antiquities. He’d brought dozens of scientists and historians to London from the Continent and Egypt, several of whom were installed as employees at the British Museum.

Showalter himself had only been living in London for the last five or six years. Mother said he’d inherited his title and a stunning manor somewhere near York but hadn’t lived there, taking degrees from Cambridge and then spending a few years on the Continent, where he’d increased an already sizable fortune by buying shares in a shipping company. But then he moved to London to indulge his passion for Egyptology, to be at the heart of the world’s greatest collection of artifacts, and to oversee developments and steward the considerable funds he’d endowed the museum with.

Showalter’s valet—a man I knew only as Tanner—suddenly broke through the crowd in great agitation and whispered in his master’s ear. I could not hear what was said, but I could see Showalter’s face transform from contented self-importance to something altogether grim.

“When?” he barked, glaring at the valet in a rare display of temper. I blanched, half-worried that my theft had been seen, that I was about to be exposed. . . .

“Just received the message, sir,” said the valet, his voice rising to match Showalter’s. The light caught the rest of his face now, revealing the oddity that made him seem at home among Showalter’s collection of curious objects. One of his eyes had a misshapen pupil, the black dot spilling out into the gray-brown iris like the cracked yolk of an egg.

“I beg your pardon,” said Showalter, pushing his way free of his guests. “I’ve urgent business to attend to. I’m sure Mrs. Blalock and the Wilkins family will continue events in my absence.” He left without another word, striding hurriedly back to the house, Tanner scurrying behind.

My brother immediately took charge. “Right, then. Who’s next? Agnes obviously hasn’t the nerve for all this. Who will take her place?” I gladly surrendered my knife, slipping away as Rupert installed three new treasure seekers.

I felt a hand on my arm. “You can’t think I didn’t notice that!”

Julia Overton stared at me, her eyes imploring. We’d been friends since we were small, having resided three doors down from each other for much of our lives. Julia’s family usually summered in the Lakes, and even took me with them one year, and we’d shared tutors in music and painting.

“Notice what?” I asked her, my cheeks growing hot. My hand flew instinctively to the bodice of my dress as if to make sure the dog’s head wasn’t peeking out. At the last moment, I let my fingers rest on the jade pendant I had insisted Mother allow me to wear this evening. It was another of the baubles Father had brought me from his travels. This one came from China, the sea green stone shaped into a delicate little butterfly. I’d worn it faithfully since he presented it to me on my eleventh birthday. I rubbed the wing as if it were a talisman.

“Don’t play coy, Agnes Wilkins, everyone saw it!”

Suddenly my palms and forehead felt damp. The small iron dog’s head in my dress seemed to burn against my skin.

“I don’t”—I cast about desperately for a lie—“know what you mean.”

“Truly? You didn’t notice that Showalter as good as declared himself right there?”

I breathed, smiling with relief. But Julia misinterpreted the reason.

“I expect you’d be pleased. He’s only the man half of London’s matchmakers are gunning for this season. And he fancies
you
!” she said, her own smile just a little too perfect, the slightest hint of bitterness in her voice. Julia was my friend, but I was reminded of a painful truth: During our debut, others would pit us as rivals for the affections of London’s wealthiest and most weddable men.

“I don’t know that I’d say that,” I protested.

“Of course you wouldn’t, but you don’t have to,” she said, adding, “
He
did. And he’s so young—”

“He’s twenty-six, Julia, near ten years older than the both of us.”

“I’ll be fortunate to land one only twenty years my senior. And not half so handsome in the bargain.”

Handsome? Showalter was tall and lean, no hint of a belly beneath his waistcoat. He had all his hair, and everyone spoke highly of his fine teeth and easy smile.

But did I find him handsome?

He wasn’t awful. But he certainly wasn’t a Mr. Darcy. There was nothing brooding or mysterious about Showalter. Still, perhaps a Darcy in fiction was better than one in reality. Because life with such a man as that could be hard, despite its pleasures. Maybe Mother and Rupert were right: A Lady
had
poisoned me. Perhaps what I really needed was a kind, simple fellow—a Bingley—rather than one who incensed me to passion or anger by turns like Mr. Darcy had Elizabeth.

I didn’t want to think of it any longer. “Have you been here all evening? I didn’t see you arrive.”

She nodded. “Yes, well, my chaperone put us a bit late arriving because she couldn’t find her shawl, but I’ve been here. Was it awful, by the way?”

“I’ve not seen your chaperone or her shawl,” I offered lamely.

“The
mummy
, Agnes. It looks ghastly.”

“Not as ghastly as using it for entertainment,” I said under my breath, eliciting a snort from Julia.

“Well, when you’re mistress of this place, you can insist on croquet or lawn bowling—something less sinister.”

I didn’t want to insist on anything as mistress of this house. I tried to wrest the subject away once more.

“Where is your chaperone now?” I asked.

She glanced round. “Talking to your father.”

I looked and saw Emmaline Perkins, a stylish widow, bending Father’s ear. He listened politely, but I could tell by his expression that his mind was elsewhere.

“And yours?” Julia asked me.

“Napping inside, perhaps,” I said.

Father abhorred the practice of hiring chaperones to arrange matches and generally keep girls like Julia and me in check. But Mother—and custom—dictated I have one. Father managed to persuade her that his ancient aunt Rachel would be just the person. Aunt Rachel wouldn’t do much to secure a match, but she also hadn’t gotten in the way of my studies. Mother had worried that a less vivacious chaperone might place me at some disadvantage, but Father teased that his money and title were enough to draw interest.

I just hadn’t counted on them drawing interest so quickly.

“Lucky,” Julia said, shaking her head lightly. “Oh, Agnes, I envy you.”

“Well, she’s
still
a chaperone,” I said. “I’m supposed to drag her around with me during the day. And by God she moves slowly.”

“It isn’t only that your chaperone is so easy to evade,” Julia interrupted. “You
belong
here. I feel utterly out of place in all this.” She cast her eyes on her own new dress—a perfectly nice frock of pink silk—and waved her glass of sherry toward the crowd.

“I assure you I don’t fit at all,” I said. “And you look ravishing, by the way.”

She smiled. “As ravishing as I can when I weigh a stone under what I ought. Mother swears she’ll have me eating nothing but honey and goose fat if I don’t have my court dress filled out by next week’s fitting.”

“She’s mad,” I said. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m far from that, but I’ll do fine. Still, I’m glad you’ll be clearing off so soon. The rest of us will have a hard time finding husbands until the men are all convinced you’re spoken for.”

“Really, Julia—”

“Stop being modest. It merely adds to your already lengthy list of things I wish I were.” She shook her head gently, the smile on her face shifting a little.

“I feel about as natural here as a pig in church.”

“Well it doesn’t show. And I’ve never seen so many men staring at a pig.” She nodded to the guests.

I was having difficulty breathing.

“At least there’s one eligible young man who doesn’t fancy you,” she added, nodding toward the mummy, where Rupert presided over the extraction of a small figurine from the body, something looking like actual flesh now peeking from the wrappings at the feet.

“Quite right about that,” I said. “Though I can’t imagine anyone fancying
him
.” I huddled close to Julia to share Rupert’s latest misadventure, one involving a goat and a statue in Covent Garden. “Did you hear—,” I began, but stopped when I saw her expression.

She was looking at me wide-eyed, expectant, but more than that, a little caught out. “Oh,” was all I managed.

Julia nodded, this time her cheeks growing pink. “Mother’s convinced he’s a good match for me. Lady Perkins is working toward it already.”

“Oh,” I repeated. Julia was a lovely girl. Smart and genuine and kind.

Everything Rupert wasn’t. I couldn’t make myself imagine them together.

But I knew the rules, and imagination rarely entered into things. Julia’s father was a successful merchant and manufacturer, and though they had money, they had no title. Father had lands and a title and a seat in the House of Lords, all making Rupert something of the best-case scenario for someone like Julia.

“He’s a decent sort of man,” she said, though I could tell she was fishing for reassurance.

I hesitated. “He is,” I said carefully. “Mother always says he possesses enough of my father’s good attributes to make her hopeful. She seems to think he needs only the right sort of woman to refine those qualities.”