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Wicked
Shannon Drake
Shannon Drake is back–with a story steeped in darkness, danger and desireTHE EARL WAS KNOWN AS A BEASTCamille Montgomery is aware of the wicked man's reputation. But as an expert in antiquities, she also knows his family's Egyptian artifacts are the finest in England. The problem is, her wayward stepfather knows this, too–and he's determined to steal them. So when he's caught in the act of robbing the so-called Beast of Carlyle, Camille must swallow her fear and boldly confront the man whose mask is said to hide a face too loathsome to behold.The Earl of Carlyle has lived in the shadows ever since the suspicious death of his parents. But he's never stopped trying to unravel the mystery behind what he suspects to have been their murder. And now that the lovely Camille has stumbled into his life, he has the perfect pawn for his deadly game of vengeance and deceit. But in laying his ruthless trap, will he risk losing his own heart?



“Camille!”
She knew the voice all too well. She froze where she stood, breath caught in her throat, along with her heart. And she stared at the face of the man—the face beneath the mask.
For long moments it was as if time—the forest, the wind itself—became still. Which, then, was the mask? The bizarre leather, which was crafted in the form of a beast? Or this, the face of humanity, far more shocking than she had ever imagined, with its ruggedly hewn, arresting features, so classic in form they might have belonged to a distant god.
“Camille, please, for the love of God. Come with me. Come with me now.”
Even as he spoke, she heard footsteps coming from behind her. She spun quickly, staring as the other man burst through trees and brush.
“Touch her and you’re a dead man,” growled the man she had known as “the beast.”
“He’s going to kill you, Camille. You know he’s a murderer. For the love of God, Camille, the man is a monster!” the other softly intoned.
She looked from one man to the other, unable to hide the torment that stormed within her. Yes, one of them was a murderer. And the other was her salvation. But which one was which?

RAVE REVIEWS FOR THE WORK OF
SHANNON DRAKE
“Drake weaves an intricate plot into a delicious romance, which makes for captivating, adventurous and wonderfully wicked reading.”
—Romantic Times on When We Touch
“Bringing back the terrific heroes and heroines from her previous titles, Drake gives The Awakening an extra-special touch. Her expert craftsmanship and true mastery of the eerie shines through!”
—Romantic Times
“Well-researched and thoroughly entertaining…”
—Publishers Weekly on Knight Triumphant
“Captures readers’ hearts with her own special brand of magic.”
—Affaire de Coeur on No Other Woman
“Shannon Drake continues to produce addicting romances.”
—Publishers Weekly on No Other Woman

Wicked
Shannon Drake


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Franci Naulin, with all the love, thanks and best wishes in the world

CONTENTS
PROLOGUE (#u0a94e242-181c-5a3e-82bb-f578b1e56c03)
CHAPTER ONE (#u820abb3a-c858-53fb-b27d-4fc65c0b7dca)
CHAPTER TWO (#ud792544c-46d8-5d9e-8e76-a54c0ae63c13)
CHAPTER THREE (#u0f683716-c4dd-541d-b384-2329162e8926)
CHAPTER FOUR (#uca6c01a7-ba93-511d-913e-e257ca3e128a)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ub651d954-8a22-51ae-9dc7-e5b0e3e046e5)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE
Unmasked
THERE WAS NOTHING TO DO but run. And pray, because that was her only salvation!
Surely the police would come. There had been a death! Yes, dear God. Surely, the police would come.
No, she was grasping at straws. The death had not happened here, so they would not come to the castle. But if Camille let that fact rule her mind too sharply, she would panic. And she needed her wits about her now, because she was running. And because she didn’t even know the face of the evil that followed her.
She was far from the great castle of Carlyle itself, and she could hear her own labored breathing. It was like a fierce wind, driving her along. At last she had to stop. Yet when she did, she knew that it was not just her own desperate lungs creating the sound she had heard. The wind had risen. It was playing through the trees, the great canopy overhead. She was glad, hopeful that the anger of the elements would continue to force away the fog that always seemed to linger in these woods, so close to the barren shrub of the moors.
There was a full moon tonight, as well. If the fog dissipated, she could see more clearly. But so could those pursuing her.
Indeed, it meant that she could be seen, as well.
She gasped in deep breaths, and when she thought she could move again, she spun slowly in a circle, trying to get her bearings. The fragile lace tie on the bustle of her skirt caught upon a twig, and she wrenched it free, heedless of the elegance she so readily destroyed. Her mind was strictly upon escape and self-preservation.
The road was to the east. The road to London, to civilization, to sanity, was to the east. There had to be a coach upon it, bringing visitors back to the city. If she could just make it to the road before…the killer came upon her.
She was certain this game had been played long enough, certain he was coming to destroy her, to make sure that she never told what she knew. To make sure she never gave away the secrets of Carlyle Castle.
In the darkness and the mist that swirled with the growing fury of the coming wind, she heard the eerie sound of the howling. Wolves, restless as she, were crying out to the heavens. Yet, at this moment, she hadn’t the least fear of the wolves of Carlyle. Because she knew the real danger. Call it a beast, but it came in the form of a man.
A rustle in the foliage warned her that someone was near. She straightened, praying that instinct would give her a hint, a way in which to run…. But the rustling was near, too near.
Run!
The command screamed in her mind. But even as she gathered her strength, it was too late. From the brush, he burst upon her.
“Camille!”
She knew the voice, all too well. She froze where she stood, breath caught in her throat, along with her heart. And she stared at the face of the man—the face beneath the mask!
Once she had known him only by touch, seen him only in fleeting moments of abandon. His was a striking face, rugged but aesthetic, with a strong chin, the nose fine and straight. And the eyes…
She had seen the eyes clearly, always. They had challenged, disdained and assessed her. They had fallen upon her with a startling blue tenderness.
For long moments, it was as if time—the forest, the wind itself—became still. She stared, seeing his face now. Which, then, was the mask? The bizarre leather, which was crafted in the form of a beast? Or this, the face of humanity, far more shocking than she had ever imagined, with its ruggedly hewn, arresting features, so classic in form they might have belonged to a distant god.
What was real? The predatory menace of the beast or the righteous strength of the man?
“Camille, please, for the love of God. Come with me. Come with me now.”
Even as he spoke, she heard the footsteps coming from behind her. Someone else? A savior? Or someone with a far more classic and customary facade? One of the others who purported to be her champions, yet all of them entangled in the mysteries and riches of the past? Lord Wimbly himself, Hunter, Aubrey, Alex…oh, God, Sir John.
She spun quickly, staring as the other man burst from an overgrown trail through trees and brush.
“Camille! Thank God!”
He came toward her.
“Touch her and you’re a dead man,” growled the man she had known as “the beast.”
“He’s going to kill you, Camille,” the other said softly.
“Never,” the beast intoned softly.
“You know he’s a murderer!” the other charged.
“You know that one of us is a murderer,” the beast said calmly.
“For the love of God, Camille, the man is a monster. It’s been proven!”
She looked from one man to the other, unable to hide the torment that stormed within her. Yes, one of them was a murderer.
And the other one was her salvation. But which one was which?
“Camille, quickly, carefully…come to me,” said the one.
The man she had known as the beast caught her eyes. “Think carefully, my love. Think of all that you have seen and learned…and felt. Think back, Camille, and ask yourself which man here is the monster.”
Think back? To when? Rumor and lies? Or to the day when she had first come to this forest, first heard the howling and…the sound of his voice.
The day she had met the beast.

CHAPTER ONE
“GOOD LORD, what has he done now?” Camille asked with dismay, looking at Ralph, Tristan’s valet, man’s man and—unfortunately, most often—his cohort in crime.
“Nothing!” Ralph said indignantly.
“Nothing? I am left to wonder why you are standing in front of me, breathless, looking as if I’m about to be called to once again come to the aid of my guardian and rescue him from some jail cell, brothel or other place of ill repute!”
She knew that she sounded indignant and angry. Tristan was incapable of staying out of trouble. She also sounded as if she would let him stew in his pot of problems, which she would not. Ralph knew it, and she knew it.
Tristan Montgomery was not much of a respectable figure as far as guardians went, despite the fact that fate had provided him with a certain status, this being a time when a man’s title meant far more than his true situation or character.
But twelve years ago he had rescued her from a workhouse or a worse fate. She shivered, thinking of other penniless orphans who had been left to fend for themselves. Tristan’s means of support had never been what one would call acceptable, but from the day he had first seen her, alone with her mother’s still-warm body, he had given his heart and his means—whatever they might be—to her. And she would never give him less.
However, she had been striving valiantly for several years now to give him more—stability! An honest place in society. A home. A far more decent life….
Luckily, Ralph had met her discreetly at the corner, rather than coming into the British Museum, where his disheveled appearance and anxious whispers might have cost her the job she had at long last acquired. She knew more about ancient Egypt than most of the men who had been on excavations, but even Sir John Matthews had hemmed and hawed about the idea of bringing in a woman. And with Sir Hunter MacDonald in on the decision, it had certainly not been an easy road. Hunter actually liked her very much, but the fact that he admired her might well have worked against her. He thought himself something of a seasoned explorer and adventurer—one who apparently gave no credence to the new breed of women suffragettes and sincerely thought that the fairer breed belonged at home. At least Alex Mittleman, Aubrey Sizemore and even Lord Wimbly seemed to accept her presence without much ado. Thankfully, Lord Wimbly and Sir John mattered the most.
Yet the trials and tribulations of her work could not be of much import at this moment. Tristan was in trouble. But on Monday evening! Just at the start of the workweek.
“I swear, Tristan did nothing.” Ralph flushed. He was a little man, no more than five feet five inches, but he was spry. He could move with the speed of a lynx, and just as supplely and secretively, as well.
Camille was aware that although Tristan might not have done anything, he had certainly been planning something illegal when he arrived in whatever his current—and dire—situation might be.
Camille turned, looking back. The scholarly curators of the museum were now exiting the grand and beautiful building, and might stumble upon her at any second. Suddenly Alex Mittleman, Sir John’s next in command, appeared. If he saw her, he’d want to talk, to escort her to the trains. She had to move, and fast.
She caught Ralph’s elbow, hurrying him down the street. As she did so, the wind expelled a mighty breath, making the nip in the air more like a true bite of ice. Maybe it wasn’t just the wind. Perhaps it was a premonition of fear that snaked so cruelly along her spine.
“Come along, speak to me and speak quickly!” Camille warned. She was already worried, very worried. Tristan was smart, incredibly well-read, with a street education to match that he had procured at the hands of a multitude of tutors when a young man. He had taught her so very much—language, reading, art, history, theater…And also the fact that perception was nine tenths of the law—the social law. If she spoke like an impoverished but genteel lady, and dressed as such, that is what people would believe her to be.
He could be so amazingly perceptive regarding so much around him. And yet, at times, it seemed as if he had no common sense whatsoever!
“Dougray’s is ahead,” Ralph said, referring to a pub.
“You do not need a quota of gin!” Camille remonstrated.
“Aye, but I do!” the little man moaned softly.
She sighed. Dougray’s was known as a working class establishment and was of a better repute than many a place both Ralph and Tristan had frequented. The pub was also not averse to serving women, particularly the growing sisterhood within the clerical office force in the country.
Camille always dressed carefully to maintain her station as assistant to Sir John Matthews, associate curator for the burgeoning department of Egyptian Antiquities. Her skirt was a somber gray with a small bustle, and her blouse, with an attractive, tailored look that primly ringed her neck, was in a similar but lighter color. Her cloak was of good quality and appropriate. Once it had belonged to a lady of class who had presumably let it go to the Salvation Army when she had acquired one of more recent style. Skeins of rich sable-brown hair—which Camille considered to be her one beauty—were dutifully pinned atop her head. She wore no jewelry or ornamentation other than the plain gold band that Tristan had found on her mother’s person, and which she had worn ever since—on a chain when she was a child, and now upon her finger.
She didn’t think they were particularly noticed when they entered the pub.
“We’re hiding?” Ralph whispered.
“Please, let’s just move to the back.”
“If you’re trying to be nondescript, Camie, you should be aware that every fellow in this place has turned to look at you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s your eyes,” he told her.
“They are an ordinary brown,” she said impatiently.
“No, lass, they’re gold, pure gold. And sometimes they have a touch of the old Emerald Isle. Quite remarkable. I’m afraid that men do watch you, the proper ones—and them that aren’t so proper!” he said, looking around with a flash of anger.
“I’m not under attack, Ralph. Please, move!”
She quickly urged Ralph into the smoky rear of the establishment, ordering him a gin and herself a cup of tea. “Now,” she commanded, “talk!”
So he did.
“Tristan loves you dearly, child. You know that,” Ralph began.
“As I love him. And I am hardly a child any longer, thank the good Lord!” Camille retorted. “Now tell me, immediately, what mess I must rescue him from this time!”
Ralph muttered into his glass of gin.
“Ralph!” she remonstrated, showing backbone and temper.
“He’s in the hands of the Earl of Carlyle.”
Camille gasped. Of all the things she might have expected, it was not this. And though she didn’t have the story as yet, already she was dismayed.
The Earl of Carlyle was known to be a monster. Not just in his dealings with workmen, servants and society, but in truth. His parents, wealthy beyond comprehension through dual inheritances, had considered themselves scholars, great antiquarians and archeologists. The fervor regarding anything from ancient Egypt had taken root in their hearts, and they had lived their adult lives in Cairo. Their only child had been sent back to England for a proper education and university, but he had joined them immediately after.
Then, according to newspaper reports, the family had fallen victim to a deadly curse. They had discovered the tomb of an ancient priest, filled with precious artifacts. Among those artifacts was a canopic jar containing the heart of the priest’s most beloved concubine. The concubine was supposedly a witch. Naturally, stealing away the canopic jar cast a serious curse upon the family. It was reported that one of the Egyptian diggers began to rant, pointing to the heavens, declaring that the selfishness and cruelty in stealing the heart of another would bring about disaster. The earl and his countess merely laughed at the man, which was a serious mistake, apparently, as they died themselves quite mysteriously—and horrendously—within days.
Their son, the present earl, had been with Her Majesty’s troops, putting down insurrectionists in India at the time. Upon hearing the news, he had gone quite insane in battle and turned the tide in a skirmish in which Her Majesty’s troops had been seriously outnumbered. He had prevailed, but not without injuries so serious that he was hideously scarred. And embittered. And saddled with a family curse, as well, one so dire that, despite the fortune he had inherited, it kept him from seeking a wife during any season in London.
According to rumor, the man was beyond vile. Hideous in face and form, he was as gnarled, blackened and evil as the heart that had come to Carlyle Castle in the canopic jar.
It was said that the relic had then disappeared, and many believed that the heart had become one with that of the now evil Lord of the Castle. He simply hated everyone. A hermit living at his overgrown and massive estate, he prosecuted any trespassers—at least, those he did not shoot—to the utmost degree of the law.
This much, Camille knew. If she hadn’t read about it in the papers, she would have heard the story anyway—embellished she was certain—as it was always a subject of discussion in the Egyptian Antiquities section of the museum.
Ralph didn’t need to say another word for her heart to be filled with dread.
She remained impassive and forced her voice to an even level as she asked Ralph, “Just how did Tristan manage to run afoul of the Earl of Carlyle?”
Ralph finished his gin with a shudder, sat back and looked at Camille. “He had it in him to…well, to waylay a carriage from the north.”
Camille sucked in air, staring at him with dismay. “He meant to rob someone, like an ordinary highwayman? He might have gotten himself shot—or hanged!”
Ralph squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, you see, that wouldn’t have happened. We never got that far.”
Hurt, as well as dismay, suddenly filled her. She had a job now! A perfectly respectable job. Work that filled her with fascination and paid quite decently. She could support the two of them—and Ralph—decently, if not in the lap of luxury, without his resorting to any criminal trickery.
“Pray, tell me, what prevented the two of you from getting your fool selves killed?” she demanded.
He squirmed in the badly upholstered seat once again. “Carlyle Castle,” he said, his eyes downcast.
“Do go on!” she said.
His lashes flickered and he said defensively, “It’s because Tristan does dote on you so, Camie, that he seeks another way to set you up properly in society.”
Camille stared at him, anger growing in her heart, then dissipating. There was simply no way to explain to Ralph that she would never be a part of “society.” Perhaps her father had been a nobleman; perhaps the fellow had even married her mother in some secret ceremony. The ring she had worn had been testament to a man regarding her mother with at least enough affection to invest in a fine piece of jewelry.
The world believed that Camille was the child of a distant relative of Tristan’s, a man knighted for his gallantry in Her Majesty’s Service in the Sudan. But it wasn’t the truth. And there would never be such a thing as a socially prominent marriage, or a season or anything resembling the like. And if she pushed too hard, the truth would be discovered.
The truth was not attractive in the least. Her mother had been a prostitute; she had died in Whitechapel. Once upon a time, she had surely had dreams of a different life. But she had fallen in love and been discarded in London’s East End, disinherited and penniless. Whoever Camille’s father was, he had long disappeared by the time she was nine years old. And Tess Jardinelle died in the same streets she had worked. If Tristan hadn’t come along that day…
“Ralph,” she said with a heavy sigh, “please, just explain.”
“The gates were ajar,” he said simply.
“They were ajar?” she demanded.
“All right…they were locked. But there is a break in the wall, and it seemed quite tempting to an adventurer such as Tristan.”
“Adventurer!”
Ralph flushed but did not revise his adjective. “There were no dogs about. It was early evening. There are stories about the wolves that prowl the forest, but you know Tristan. He thought that we should just venture in.”
“I see. Just to enjoy the grounds and the moonlight?”
Ralph shrugged uncomfortably. “All right. Tristan believed there might be some trinket…just to be found on the ground, which might fetch a fortune if sold to the right people, in the right places. That’s all. It was nothing heinous or evil. He believed he might find something that wouldn’t even be missed by one so great as the Earl of Carlyle, and that might still bring about a great deal of money when sold—properly.”
“Black market!”
“He wants the best for you. And there is that young man at the museum who has shown such an interest!”
Camille could not help but roll her eyes. He was referring to Sir Hunter MacDonald, a “consultant” to Lord David Wimbly and the titular head of the Antiquities section, due to his experience at Egyptian digs and, no doubt, the vast amounts of money he had contributed to the museum.
Hunter was attractive. He was quite dashing, really. And he’d earned his knighthood in the service, as well. Tall, charming, well-spoken and broad shouldered. Yet, though she did enjoy his company, she was careful. Despite his allure, his continued flattery and attempts at something closer, she never forgot the circumstances of her birth. Many times she had imagined her mother, alone and beautiful, trusting in just such a man, her heart outweighing and denying all logic and reality.
She knew Hunter was interested in her, but there was no future there. No matter what his compliments and kind words, she was certain that she was not the type such a man would bring home to his mama.
In her life, she would accept no less than a real commitment. There could be no such thing as falling head over heels in love, or letting passion rule her mind. And Camille meant to keep her pride, dignity—and position—at all costs. The thought of losing her employment at the museum was one she refused to entertain, and it was why she was determined to be so careful now.
“I want no young man, Ralph, who is not interested in me for myself.”
“That’s well and good, Camille. But we are living in a society that seeks pedigrees and riches.”
She nearly groaned aloud. “A record of arrest and time served, or a guardian with an address such as Newgate, would not give me riches or a pedigree, Ralph.”
“Oh, come. Please, Camille, we intended nothing really evil! Outlaws and highwaymen have become quite famous and revered in legend for stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. We just happen to be the poor.”
“And outlaws and highwaymen have dangled from ropes far too many times!” she reminded him, eyes flashing. “I have been trying, with the patience of a saint, one might say, to explain to you both that stealing is not just considered to be evil, it’s illegal!”
“Ah, Camie girl!” Ralph said miserably. His eyes fell to the table again. “Might I have another gin?”
“Certainly not!” Camille said. “You’ve got to keep your wits about you, and finish this story so that I know what can be done! Where is Tristan now? Has he been taken before a magistrate? What on earth will I ever be able to do? And if Tristan was caught…?”
“He pushed me back behind the trees and allowed himself to be taken,” Ralph said.
“So he has been arrested?” she said.
Ralph shook his head. He bit his lip and told her, “He’s at Carlyle Castle. At least, I think he’s still there. I came as quickly as I could.”
“Oh, dear God! They’ve surely had him taken to some jail by now!” she exclaimed.
To her surprise, he shook his head once again. “No, you see, I heard the beast.”
“Pardon?”
“He was there. The Earl of Carlyle was there, riding this massive, black, very evil-looking steed! Huge, it were! And he was shouting to his men, telling them that the trespasser must be held, and that…”
“And that what?”
“He could never be allowed to say what he had seen.”
She stared at him, confused, the cold that had once trickled at her neck now an icicle driving brutally into her flesh.
“What did you see?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing! Honestly, nothing. But there were men with Carlyle. And they dragged Tristan to the castle with them.”
“How did you know that it was Carlyle—the beast?” she asked.
Ralph shuddered. “The mask!” he said softly.
“He wears a mask?”
“Oh, yes. The man is a monster. Surely, you’ve heard.”
“He is crippled, bent over and wears a mask?”
“No, no, he is huge. Well, very tall in his saddle. And he wears a mask. In leather, I believe, but it has the visage of a beast. Part lion, perhaps. Or wolf. Or dragon. It is horrid, that’s all I can say. His voice is like thunder, deep…as if he is indeed cursed of the devil himself! But it was him. Aye, it was him!”
She stared at Ralph.
Ralph shook his head in misery. “Tristan would strangle me if he knew that he’d sacrificed himself just so that I would worry you, but…he can’t be left there. Even if the police suspect him of being a robber…”
Yes, that would be better. If only Tristan had been hauled back to London to face accusation and trial, she could somehow pay for his legal defense. She could go before the magistrate herself and plead that he was going mad, that age had been stealing his senses. She could have…God knew what she could have done.
But, according to Ralph, Tristan was still at Carlyle Castle, held prisoner by a man with a reputation for merciless brutality. She rose.
“What are you going to do?” Ralph demanded.
“What else?” she demanded with a weary sigh. “I am going to Carlyle Castle.”
Ralph shuddered. “I have done the wrong thing. Tristan would not want you throwing yourself into danger.”
She felt a great pang of sorrow for Ralph, yet, what had he expected?
“I will not be in danger,” she assured him, smiling wearily. “He did teach me something about being a con artist, Ralph. I will go in all innocence and naiveté, and they will return my guardian to me. You’ll see.”
He rose quickly. “You cannot go alone!”
“I don’t intend to,” she assured him dryly. “We must head home first, and I must change. And you, too, must change.”
“Me?”
“Indeed!”
“Change?”
“Perception is everything, Ralph,” she told him sagely. He looked puzzled. “Never mind. Come along. I think we need to hurry.” She froze suddenly, turning back on him. “Ralph, no one knows, right? No one knows that the Earl of Carlyle has Tristan?”
“No one but me. And you now, of course.”
She felt a cold clutch of bony fingers encircling her heart, reaching into her throat. Good God, no matter what kind of a beast he was considered to be, the Earl of Carlyle couldn’t simply…murder a man.
“Ralph, we must move, and quickly!” she said, catching his arm and dragging him along.
“THE GENTLEMAN is resting nicely,” Evelyn Prior said, coming into the den. She fell into one of the huge upholstered wingback chairs that sat before the fire. Beside her, the master of the house had taken a position in the matching chair, brooding as he stared into the flames and scratched the huge head of his Irish wolfhound, Ajax.
Brian Stirling, Earl of Carlyle, looked over at her, brows knitted, deep in thought. After a moment, he said, “How badly is he hurt?”
“Oh, not badly, I dare say. The physician said that he was merely shaken and sore, and he didn’t believe the man had broken any bones, though he did acquire some bruising from climbing the walls, then falling. But I think he’ll be fine in a few days’ time.”
“He will not be crawling about the house in the night?”
Evelyn smiled. “Good heavens, no. Corwin is on guard in the hallway. And as you know, we keep the crypts locked tight. Only you and I have keys to the gates below. Even if he were to wander, there would be nothing he could find. And he won’t wander. Since he was in some pain, he has been given a good dose of laudanum.”
“He won’t wander. Corwin will see to that,” Brian said with certainty. His staff at Carlyle Castle was small, far too small for the upkeep of such a property. Everyone here was not just in service, but considered a friend. And each man and woman was loyal to the core—far more than appearances would imply.
“You are right, of course. Corwin will be entirely diligent,” Evelyn agreed.
“What do you think possessed the man to do such a thing?” Brian asked. He turned his gaze from the flames to Evelyn once again. “The grounds themselves are so overgrown, a veritable jungle. It’s amazing he would risk a trek through them.”
“And the estate was so beautifully kept when your parents were alive!” she murmured.
“A year of English rain, my dear, can do wonders,” Brian said. “So we have a jungle and wildlife! What would make him risk it?”
“The promise of great riches to be stolen,” she said.
“You don’t believe that the man is working for someone, do you?” he asked sharply.
She lifted her hands helplessly. “Honestly? No, I believe he came to steal something of value, and nothing more. Yet, is it possible that he’s working for someone, seeking to find out what you have and what you know? Yes, it’s possible.”
“I’ll find out tomorrow,” Brian said. He knew the sound of his voice was chilling. He hadn’t meant for it to be so, but as far as Carlyle Castle and his current activities went, he did feel a certain ruthlessness. He was embittered, he admitted, feeling a strong right to be so. There was more than the problem of the past to be solved. There was the future.
Evelyn looked at him anxiously, worried about his tone. “He has said that his name is Tristan Montgomery. And he swears that he was acting alone, though you already know that, since you were with Corwin and Shelby when he was found.”
“Yes, I know. He also claimed to have merely ‘stumbled’ onto the castle grounds. How one stumbles over a nine-foot wall, I don’t know. Since he is claiming that he is innocent of any evil intent, he is naturally claiming innocence in any kind of a conspiracy. But we shall see. Shelby will go down to the city tomorrow and see what he can discover about the man. Naturally, he will remain our guest until his real intentions can be discovered.”
“Should I ride down on a shopping excursion, as well?” Evelyn suggested.
“Perhaps,” Brian mused. He sighed deeply. “And perhaps it’s time I began to accept a few of the invitations that have come my way.”
Evelyn laughed. “Indeed, I’ve been telling you that you should. But think of the fear in the hearts of many a debutante’s mama!”
“Yes, that’s a thought.”
“It’s a pity you haven’t a fiancée or wife to stand charmingly by your side. Proof, of course, that there is no curse upon the house, and that you are not a beast, just a man, wounded by a great family tragedy.”
“That’s true, as well,” he murmured, gazing at her as he considered her reply.
“Oh, good heavens, don’t look at me!” Evelyn said with a laugh. “I’m way too old, Your Grace!”
He had to grin at that. Evelyn was a beautiful woman. Her green eyes were filled with deep intelligence, and though nearing forty, she still possessed a face with such fine lines that she would be beautiful until the age of one hundred, should God grant such a life span.
“Ah, Evelyn! You know my heart as no other woman could or ever will, and yet, you’re quite right.” His face hardened. “And if I were to know a proper young marital prospect, I’d not bring her in on this charade. God knows what danger she could face.”
“Surely no one would drag an innocent into this tangled web of evil!” Evelyn murmured. “A lass could not be in danger.”
“My mother is dead, is she not?” he inquired tightly.
“Your dear mother was unusual, and that you must know. In her knowledge, in her pursuits, in her courage,” Evelyn said. “You will not find another woman like her.”
“No,” Brian agreed. “And still, that the fiends should have slain a woman turns my heart to stone, though I agree that I would have pursued this with no less resolve had it been my father alone who was so cruelly killed.” He hesitated a moment. “Ah, Evelyn, I am not happy that you are involved.”
Evelyn smiled. “I was involved before you were, actually,” she reminded him softly. “And I am more than willing to risk my life and all that I have. Still, I don’t believe that I’m in any danger. I haven’t the knowledge or the skill your mother possessed. And I don’t really believe that a young woman—a powder puff of a trophy on your arm—would actually be in danger, either. You are the one targeted, if there is to be any danger. Any enemy will know you will not let the dead lie buried until they do so in peace.”
“I am the one cursed,” he reminded her.
“And do you believe in curses?” she asked, somewhat amused.
“It depends on how one sees a curse. Cursed? Yes. I live in hell. Can the curse be lifted? Certainly. But I must find the cure, in all that I do,” he said solemnly.
Evelyn shook her head. “See? A lovely young woman, claiming to love you despite the hideousness of your face and all that has occurred in the past, does much to change the appearance of Carlyle—man and castle, if you will. Perhaps there is someone we could…hire.”
“You’re serious!” he said.
“I am. Honestly, what you need is someone quite beautiful at your side. Someone to accompany you into the rooms of society, someone to prove you human.”
“And I’ve worked so hard to create my image of bountiful kindness already!” he said sardonically.
“Yes, and that was necessary,” Evelyn agreed. “We’ve had no intruders at the castle—until now.”
“None that we know about,” he said sharply.
“Brian! It’s time for a change.”
“I cannot change my course until I have come to the end.”
“You may never come to an end.”
“You’re wrong. I will.”
She sighed. “Fine, then see it my way. Add a layer to your charade, Brian. You’ve done what can be done from the shadows, and you will continue to do so. But I really believe it’s time that you must reenter society. There is the invitation to the fund-raiser. You are certain we are dealing with members of scholarly organizations, and that is certainly a valid supposition. And who better than those who shared your parents’ love and fascination with the wonders of an ancient world? You’ve told me that you actually have your list of suspects narrowed down.”
He rose restlessly, paced before the fire. Ajax, nervous, sensing his master’s mood, whined. Brian took a moment to reassure the dog. “It’s all right, boy,” he said, then gave his attention to Evelyn once again. “Yes, we are seeking someone with a deep knowledge of the field. That is a given. But we are also seeking someone capable of murder, the kind of cunning and malicious premeditation that killed my parents.”
Evelyn was silent for a minute. Despite the year that had now gone by, it was impossible to remember how the late earl and his countess had died without feeling a terrible sense of pain and horror.
Brian walked to the occasional table behind the chairs, poured a portion of brandy into a snifter, swallowed it down and then looked at Evelyn. “Forgive my manners,” he said. “My dear, would you like a brandy?”
“Yes, actually,” she said, smiling. He poured some into her snifter first, then refilled his own.
Lifting his glass to her, he said dryly, “To the night. To darkness and shadows.”
“No, to the day and the light,” she said firmly.
He grimaced.
“It’s time, I’m telling you,” Evelyn insisted. “We must somehow find you a delightful young woman. Not incredibly wealthy or titled. That would be too absurd, considering…well, with your reputation, no one would believe it. Still, there would have to be just the right circumstances, the right someone. She should be young enough, beautiful, compassionate and possessing a certain charm, as well. With the right woman by your side, you’d be able to continue your investigations without worrying about desperate mothers ready to sacrifice their daughters to the beast, all for the sake of the wealth of Carlyle.”
“And where do I acquire this charming beauty?” he asked, grinning. “She must have a certain intelligence—and the charm of which you speak—otherwise having her at my side would do no good. The concept of searching the streets to hire such a woman would not work, either. I can promise you that we will not find such a sweet, well-spoken beauty in such a quest. So there is little hope. It’s most unlikely that such a perfect candidate will come knocking at the door!”
It was precisely then that a tapping did sound, firm upon the door to the den.
Shelby, in his footman’s attire—a little bizarre, but certainly imposing upon a man of his great size and musculature—cracked open the door when bidden to do so.
“There’s a young woman to see you, Lord Brian.” He seemed quite baffled.
“A young woman?” Brian repeated, frowning.
Shelby nodded. “Actually, a very beautiful young woman, waiting down at the gates.”
“A young woman!” Evelyn exclaimed, staring at Brian.
“Yes, yes, we’ve established that,” Brian said. “What is her name? Why has she come?”
“What does it matter?” Evelyn said. “You must invite her in and find out what it is that she needs or wants.”
“Evelyn, certainly it matters. She must be a fool, to be coming here. Or she’s working for someone,” Brian said.
Evelyn waved a hand in the air. “Shelby, you must bring her in. Immediately. Oh, Brian! Please, you mustn’t always be so suspicious.”
He arched a brow.
“Brian, please! We haven’t had an actual visitor here since…in years!” she finished with a flush. “I can serve a delightful meal. It’s actually quite exciting!”
“Exciting,” Brian said dryly. He lifted his hands. “Shelby, do invite the young woman in.” He looked at Evelyn. “For, indeed, she has come tapping at our door.”

CHAPTER TWO
CAMILLE HAD BEEN QUITE CAREFUL regarding every move she made, including their conveyance and their appearances. Ralph was handsomely decked out in one of Tristan’s day suits with a proper cap, giving the impression of a properly clean and dignified individual, but one in service. She had drawn out her best gown, a feminine concoction in deep maroon, the bodice neither too high nor too low, the bustle of a medium size, the overskirt in satin, with lace bordering the underskirt, showing through the delicate scallops at the hem. It was an outfit, she had determined, that dressed a young respectable woman who did not possess a great fortune, yet had the most respectable means to see one through life.
She definitely begrudged the money she had to pay the hansom cab to bring them so far out of the city, but the driver was courteous, glad of the fare and quick to assure her that he was willing to wait to return them to London. So it was that she stood at the massive gates to Carlyle Castle, staring at the massive structure of wrought iron that prevented them from entering, and turned to Ralph in disbelief.
“You two determined that you must scale this wall?” she said.
He shrugged unhappily. “Well, if you follow the wall itself around a bit, there’s a damaged area. It was actually quite easy to get a foothold, and then…well, I boosted Tristan and he dragged me. Really, I might have broken bones escaping, since I had to depart the same way, and by that time there was some kind of very large hound after me. Unless, in fact, he does raise wolves…but no matter. I did escape, and I do swear I wasn’t seen.”
Ralph blushed, aware that she hadn’t in the least appreciated his story.
She had already pulled upon the massive cord that presumably rang a bell somewhere in the castle.
“Tristan is within,” she murmured.
“Camie, honestly, I’d not have deserted, ever!” Ralph protested. “But I didn’t know what else to do, other than come to you.”
“I know that you wouldn’t have deserted him,” she said softly, then added, “Hush! Someone is coming.”
They heard a pounding of horse’s hooves, and a man on top of a huge steed appeared behind the gate. When he dismounted, Camille could very well understand the huge horse, for the fellow was a giant. He stood many inches over six feet, and his shoulders seemed to have the breadth of a doorway. He was no lad, but neither was he ancient. She thought his age to be, perhaps, midthirties. Muscled and tense, he made his way to peer through the gate.
“Yes?”
“Good evening,” Camille said, flustered despite herself by the fellow’s size and foreboding tone. “Excuse the late hour and the unannounced call, I beg you. It’s imperative that I see the master of the house, the Earl of Carlyle, on a matter of utmost urgency.”
She had expected questions; she received none. The man stared at her from beneath dark, bushy brows, then turned.
“Excuse me!” she cried.
“I will see if the master is available,” he called over his shoulder. He leaped atop the huge horse once again, and the sound of the animal’s lope disappeared into the darkness of the trail that led to the castle.
“He won’t be available,” Ralph said pessimistically.
“He must be. I will refuse to leave until he sees me,” Camille assured Ralph.
“To most men, the thought of a lady waiting at the gates in the darkness would be distressing. But we are dealing with the Beast of Carlyle,” Ralph reminded her.
“He will see me,” Camille insisted.
She paced before the gate.
“No one is coming back,” Ralph said, growing distressed.
“Ralph, our hansom is waiting, but I will not leave without Tristan. If no one appears soon, I will ring that bell until they are all half-mad from the sound,” Camille said.
She stood still, arms crossed over her chest.
Ralph began to pace. “No one is coming,” he repeated.
“Ralph, it is some distance to the castle. The man surely had to go to it, find his master and then return to us.”
“We will sleep out here,” Ralph warned.
“Well, you do know how to break back in to the property,” Camille reminded him.
“We should start now, then.”
“We should wait,” she said firmly.
She began to fear that Ralph was right, that she would be ignored, left to wait at the gates with no leave to enter and no refusal sending her away. But then, just when she had nearly despaired, she heard the sound of hooves once again and the clacking of wheels.
A small wagon, handsomely roofed in leather and fringe, appeared with the huge man at the reins. He hopped down from the driver’s seat and came to the gate, using a large key to open the padlock braced around it, then swinging the gate open.
“If you’ll please accompany me?” he said, the words polite, his tone as dour as ever.
Camille flashed an encouraging smile at Ralph and followed. Ralph came along, as well. The big man hoisted Camille into the rear seat of the conveyance, and Ralph hopped up behind her.
The small carriage took them down a long and winding path. The darkness on either side of the road seemed to be deep and endless. By day, Camille was certain, they would have seen massive trees and an overgrown forest flanking the path. The master of Carlyle liked his environs secluded, to the point of it all appearing to be like some godforsaken no-man’s-land. As they trotted along, it seemed to Camille that the forest breathed, that indeed it was an overbearing entity ready to suck in the unwary, entangle the soul.
“And you two thought you might begin to find some treasure here?” she whispered to Ralph.
“You’ve not seen the castle yet,” he whispered back.
“You’re both mad! I should leave Tristan here,” she murmured. “This is the greatest foolishness I have ever seen.”
Then the castle loomed before her. Mammoth. It retained a moat over which lay a great drawbridge, permanently down now, Camille imagined, since armies were unlikely to come and besiege the place. Yet, it appeared quite certain that no one could simply slip into the place, since the castle walls themselves were staunch and windowless to a great height, and only narrow slits could be seen.
She looked at Ralph, angrier and more distraught the closer they came. What had the two been thinking?
The carriage clattered over the bridge. They came to a great courtyard and she saw just what Tristan might have known—the area was covered with antiquities, fascinating statues and pieces of art. An ancient bathtub—Greco-Roman, she thought—had been handsomely altered to act as a contemporary watering trough. There were various sarcophagi lining an area of the outer wall, and numerous other treasures were laid closer to the path that led to a great door. The castle had obviously seen some construction work to bring it into the nineteenth century. The doorway was rounded handsomely, and from the turret atop it, boxes of vines spilled over, offering a tiny bit of welcome to a visitor.
She continued to survey the courtyard as the huge man came to help her from the carriage. The artifacts belonged in the museum, she thought indignantly. But she was well aware that many things she would consider precious were ordinary to rich world travelers. She’d heard, as well, that mummies were so plentiful, they were often sold as fodder for fireplaces and heat. Still, there were many stunning examples of Egyptian art here—two giant ibises, a few statues of Isis and a number of others that were surely lesser pharaohs.
“Come,” the big man said.
They followed him up the path to the door. It opened to a circular reception area, where once, it was planned that the enemy should be bottled and trapped, were they to get this far. Now, the area was a mudroom.
“If I may?”
The man took her cape. Ralph held tightly to his overcoat. The big man shrugged.
“Come.”
They passed through a second door to an outstanding hall. Here, modernization had definitely been in effect. In fact, the room was actually gracious. The stone stairway curved to an upper level and balcony, and the stairs were covered in a warm, royal-blue runner. Weapons lined ceilings and part of the walls, but they were interspersed by beautiful oils, some of them portraits, others medieval and pastoral scenes. She was certain that many were the works of great masters.
A fire crackled in a massive hearth. The furniture surrounding the hearth was in deep brown leather, yet not austere in the least. Rather, it offered a plush and welcoming comfort.
“You, wait here,” the man told Ralph. “You, come with me,” he said to Camille.
Ralph stared at her like a frightened puppy being left behind in a ditch. She inclined her head to let him know that it was quite all right, and followed the man up the curving stairs.
He led her into a room with a massive desk and endless shelves of books. Her heart leaped at the sight of them. So many! And the subject matter on one wall was that near and dear to her heart. Ancient Egypt was a massive tome aligned next to The Path of Alexander the Great.
“The master will be with you shortly,” the big man said, closing the door behind him as he left.
Standing alone in the large room, Camille was first aware of silence. Then, bit by bit, those little noises that intruded upon the night. From somewhere, she heard the plaintive, chilling call of a wolf. Then, as if to alleviate that chill, the snap of a fire burning brightly in the hearth to the left of the entry.
A crystal decanter of brandy, surrounded by fragile snifters, sat on a small brown table. She was tempted to run to it, seize up the elegant crystal and imbibe the brandy until it was gone.
Turning again, she noted a large and beautiful painting behind the great desk. The woman within it wore clothing of perhaps a decade earlier. She had lovely light hair and a smile that seemed to illuminate. Her deep blue eyes, almost a sapphire, were the most alluring aspect of the painting. Fascinated, Camille moved closer.
“My mother, Lady Abigail of Carlyle,” she heard, the tone deep, richly masculine, yet somehow harsh and menacing.
She spun around, startled, not having heard the door open. Despite herself, she was afraid that she gaped, as well, for the face she saw upon the fellow who had entered the room was that of a beast.
He wore a leather mask, she realized, molded to face and features. And though not really unattractive—and certainly artistic—it was still somehow frightening. And in the back of her mind, she wondered if it hadn’t been crafted to be so.
She wondered, as well, just how long he had watched her before speaking.
“It’s a beautiful painting,” she managed to say at last, praying that the time she had stared at him, mouth open, was less than she feared. She tried hard not to let her voice waver, though she couldn’t tell if she succeeded.
“Yes, thank you.”
“A very beautiful woman,” she added, the compliment sincere.
She was aware of the eyes behind the mask, watching her. And she noticed, because the mouth was somewhat visible beneath the edge of the facade, that there was a mocking amusement to him, as if he was accustomed to gratuitous compliments.
“She was, indeed, beautiful,” he said, and came closer, his strides long, one hand clamped around a wrist behind his back as he neared her. “So, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
She smiled and extended a hand graciously, hating the fact that she was playing at the social butterfly—which she was not and never would be.
“Camille Montgomery,” she said. “And I am here on a desperate quest. My uncle, my guardian, is lost, and he was last seen upon the road before this very castle.”
He looked at her hand a long time before deciding to bow to courtesy and accept it, bending over it. The lips beneath the mask were searing as they touched her flesh, yet he released her instantly, as if it were he who had touched hot coals.
“Ah,” he said simply, walking past her.
Though not so tall as the giant who had come to the gate, he was certainly a few inches over six feet, and his shoulders were very broad beneath his handsome smoking jacket. His stature was trim, his waist quite narrow, his legs long and powerful. He appeared both strong and agile, whatever the condition of his face. A beast? Perhaps, for she could too easily recall the heat of his lips against her flesh, the length of his fingers, the power in his hand.
He didn’t speak; his back was to her as he, too, surveyed the painting above the desk.
At last, she cleared her throat. “Lord Stirling, I do apologize with the greatest regret for intruding upon you at this hour and without inquiry. But I am, as you can well imagine, distressed beyond all measure. The dear man who raised me is missing, and there are so many dangers in the woods. Cutthroats, wolves…all manner of creature might be about in the night. I am so very worried, and therefore I pray that I may turn to a man of such high position as Your Lordship.”
He turned, once again very amused.
“Oh, come, my dear! All of London has surely heard of my reputation!”
“Reputation, sir?” she said, feigning innocence. It was a mistake.
“Ah, yes, the misbegotten beast! Were I simply the Earl of Carlyle and recognized as such with a modicum of respect and dignity rather than fear, dear woman, you’d not have come to the gates with the least hope of being received by me.”
His tone was flat and harsh, allowing no quarter for a pretense of ignorance. In fact, she nearly took a step back, but refused to allow herself to do so—for Tristan’s sake.
“Tristan Montgomery is here, somewhere, sir. He was traveling with a companion and disappeared outside your gates. I want him given into my care, immediately.”
“So you are related to the loathsome rascal who crawled my walls like the most common of thieves this evening,” he said, unperturbed.
“Tristan is no loathsome rascal,” she denied hotly, although she refrained from declaring that he was certainly not a thief. “Sir, I believe he is in this castle, and I will not leave without him.”
“I hope then that you are prepared to stay,” he said flatly.
“So, he is here!” she claimed.
“Oh, yes. He took a bit of a fall in his attempt to relieve me of my possessions.”
She swallowed, trying to maintain her composure. She had never expected the man to be so blunt, or to hear a tone that could be both flat and entirely ruthless all in one. A new fear was also triggered within her.
“He is hurt? Badly?” she inquired.
“He will live,” he said dryly.
“But I must be taken to him. At once!”
“In good time,” he said simply. “You’ll excuse me for a moment?” It wasn’t really a question; he meant to depart the room and leave her again, and he didn’t give a damn if she did or didn’t excuse his rudeness. He strode toward the door.
“Wait!” she cried. “I must see Tristan. Immediately.”
“I repeat, you may see him. In good time.”
He departed, leaving her alone once again. She stared after him, confused and angry. Why would he agree to see her, only to disappear after a few minutes’ worth of heated conversation?
She walked around the room, trying to calm herself, studying the titles of books as she bided whatever time she was to wait. Yet the titles did nothing but swim before her eyes, so she found a seat before the fire.
He’d admitted that Tristan was here. Hurt! Caught in the act of thievery.
Good God! No one could expect her to sit still while her guardian lay somewhere, perhaps in pain, perhaps even direly injured!
She jumped up anxiously and started for the door, but after throwing it open, she stood frozen. There was a dog there. Massive. It was merely sitting there, but its head came above her waist! Then the animal growled softly; a warning sound.
She closed the door and paced back to the fire, furious yet afraid. Was the animal trained to rip anyone to shreds who tried to move about the place on their own? Fueled by anger, she walked back to the door. But before she could reach it, it opened.
It wasn’t the return of the Earl of Carlyle, as she had hoped. Instead, a woman entered the room. She was an attractive, older woman with dancing eyes and a quick smile. She was in a lovely dove-gray gown with a cast of silver to it, and the warm curl of her lips was more than startling under the circumstance.
“Good evening, Miss Montgomery,” she said pleasantly.
“Thank you,” Camille replied, “except that, I’m afraid, for me, it isn’t a good evening at all. My guardian is being held hostage here, and it seems that I am likewise imprisoned in this room.”
“Imprisoned!” the woman exclaimed.
“There is a dog—or a fanged monster, one might say—on the other side of the door,” Camille said.
The woman’s smile deepened. “Ajax. Pay him no mind. He is a big lover, once you get to know him. Really.”
“I’m not so sure that I’m eager to make his close acquaintance,” Camille murmured. “Madam, please, I’m most desperate to see my guardian.”
“Indeed, and so you will. But first things first. Will you have some brandy? I’ve arranged a light supper for you and the earl, and it will be served quite soon. I’m Evelyn Prior, the earl’s housekeeper. He’s asked me to see that a room be prepared for you, as well.”
“A room?” she said, distressed. “Mrs. Prior, please, I’ve come to take Tristan home. Whatever care he needs, I can give it to him.”
“Well, Miss Montgomery,” Mrs. Prior said, her tone sad, “I’m afraid that the earl was considering filing charges against your guardian.”
Camille winced, looking downward. “Please. I don’t believe he intended any harm.”
“I’m afraid the master doesn’t believe that he merely fell over the gate,” the woman said lightly. “But…well, the two of you must talk.”
Evelyn Prior seemed far too lovely, rational and sane for the environment here, that was certain. All about the castle seemed dark and menacing; she was as light and lovely as the summer air. Yet she, too, seemed to have very resolute objections to Camille simply gathering up Tristan and leaving.
She swallowed hard. “I am willing to make reparation for—”
“Miss Montgomery, I’m not the one with whom you must discuss the matter of your guardian’s guilt or innocence, or any form of reparation. If you’ll accompany me now, I’ll see you to the master’s quarters dining area. In time, you may see your guardian, and then your own chamber for the evening.”
“Oh, we cannot stay!” Camille protested.
“I’m afraid you must stay. The physician has said that your guardian must not be moved this evening. He is sore, indeed.”
“I can take care of him,” Camille swore.
“He will not be traveling this evening. We cannot keep you here, of course, but I’m afraid that your guardian will not be leaving our hospitality as of yet.”
Despite the woman’s courtesy and easy smile, Camille felt chills erupt at the base of her spine. Stay here? Surrounded by the deepest, darkest forest she had ever seen? With the man in the mask, the imposing, brooding, harsh and seemingly indomitable beast of the castle?
“I…I…”
“Truly!” the woman said with a laugh. “We may well enjoy our solitude here, but we are not so crass or without comfort as you might imagine. You will be quite fine if you stay. Whatever His Lordship’s reputation, he is the Earl of Carlyle, you know. He has responsibilities to the Crown itself, and is trusted by her most gracious Majesty, Victoria.”
Camille lowered her lashes, trying to conceal the flush that came to her cheeks. Mrs. Prior had read her every thought.
“I have come with a servant. He has been left waiting in the great hall,” Camille said.
“Well then, we shall see that he is comfortably bedded down for the evening, as well, Miss Montgomery. Do come along now.”
Camille offered a weak smile and did so, having little choice.
In the hall, the dog waited. He looked at Camille with as much suspicion as had his master. Even the dog’s eyes seemed to be hooded.
“Good boy!” Mrs. Prior said, stroking the great head. The monster hound wagged its tail.
Camille remained close at Mrs. Prior’s heels. They traversed the long hall, coming to the far end of the eastern wing of the castle. The door was center at that end of the wing, and Mrs. Prior pushed it open. The lord of the castle awaited her.
Here, in the reception area for his private quarters, there were great pocket doors that rolled back to allow a scenic view of the darkness and the deep jungle of forest that helped create it. There must have been something out there, however, for he looked out at the expanse before him, hands clasped behind his back, legs firmly set, shoulders squared, as Mrs. Prior led Camille in.
There was a table set with an exquisite white cloth, fine bone china—the main plates covered with silver heating domes—shining silverware and crystal-stemmed glasses. Two chairs awaited.
Mrs. Prior cleared her throat, but Camille was certain that the Earl of Carlyle knew they were there. He simply hadn’t chosen to turn.
“Miss Montgomery, sir,” she said. “I will leave you two.”
Camille was ushered in and the door closed behind her. The master turned at last.
He lifted a hand, indicating the table, then walked forward, pulling back a chair for her to sit. She hesitated.
“Ah. I’m sorry. Is the idea of dining with a scarred man in a mask far too loathsome a concept for you, my dear?”
The words were gently spoken, but they weren’t filled with compassion. They might have been a challenge. Or a test?
“I believe you’ve chosen a rather bizarre mask, sir, but certainly it’s your right. There is little that disturbs my appetite, and nothing of appearance that can disturb me regarding a fellow human being.”
She thought she saw again, below the leather edge of the mask, a faint smile, both mocking and amused.
“How very honorable, Miss Montgomery! Yet is such a credo true in your heart, or simply what I might wish to hear?”
“I believe, sir, that any answer might be as dubious in your mind as the words already spoken. Suffice it to say, I had not realized my own hunger, and I am happy to share a meal while discussing the situation regarding my guardian.”
“Then, my dear…?” He swept his arm toward the chair.
She sat.
He walked around the table, took his own seat and lifted the silver cover from her plate. The aroma, just hinted at in the night air thus far, struck her heavily then, and it was delicious. The plate came with fluffy potatoes, a slice of roast that was mouthwatering and artful little carrots. She hadn’t had a bite since her break at ten that morning, and then she had barely bothered with a muffin and jam.
“Does it meet with your approval, Miss Montgomery? Rather mundane, I’m afraid, but quickly achieved,” he said.
“It seems exceptional, under such very timely circumstances, indeed,” she said politely. She realized that he was waiting for her to begin, so she picked up her fork and knife and delicately chiseled off a piece of meat. It was as delicious as the aroma had promised.
“Excellent,” she assured him.
“I’m so glad you approve,” he murmured.
“As to my guardian,” she began.
“The thief, yes.”
She sighed. “My Lord, Tristan is not a thief. I can’t begin to imagine what brought him into these walls, but there would be no reason for him to steal.”
“Quite well-off, are you, then?” he inquired.
“We are certainly in able circumstances,” she said.
“So he did not come to steal for small profit, but sought instead a certain treasure.”
“Not at all!” she protested, realizing that it had somehow made him angrier and more suspicious when she suggested that they didn’t need money. Small sums, at any rate.
“Lord Stirling,” she said, trying to put forth a demeanor of indignation, irritation and assurance. “You really have no right to suppose that my guardian was here to rob you. He—”
“According to him, he arrived accidentally upon the property. You saw the gate and the wall. It’s rather difficult to pass by accidentally, don’t you agree?”
Despite the mask, he had impeccable manners. The bottom of the visage was cut so that it covered the cheeks and the bridge of the nose, but left the mouth free. She suddenly wondered what his appearance was like beneath the mask, and just how badly he had been facially scarred to wear the leather over his features.
He was casual as he spoke, and she was almost lulled by his tone.
“I haven’t seen Tristan as yet. You haven’t allowed me to do so,” she reminded him. “I have no idea what could have brought him onto the estate. I know only that I must take him home very soon, and that I can swear to you, there would be no reason on earth for him to steal.”
“You are in possession of a great fortune of your own?”
“That would surprise you, sir?”
He set his fork and knife down, eyes assessing her. “Yes. Your gown is quite lovely and you wear it well, but I would estimate that it is several years out of date. You did not arrive in your own conveyance, but in a hansom cab, which, by the way, has been sent on back to London.”
She tensed, ruing the morrow. She would have to get Tristan out of here quickly, else chance losing the job she so dearly needed and desired.
She set her own fork and knife down. “Perhaps I do not possess a huge fortune of my own, sir. Not as you see it. But I am fortunate, very able and far more than capable. I work, sir, and receive payment each week.”
Dark lashes narrowed over his blue eyes. She gasped, realizing that he was imagining a far different employment from that to which she referred.
“How dare you, sir!” she sputtered.
“How dare I what?”
“I do not!”
“You do not what?”
“Do what you’re thinking that I do!”
“Then just what do you do?” he inquired.
“You are no mythical creature, My Lord, just a boor!” she informed him, getting ready to toss her napkin down and rise, Tristan forgotten for a moment in her agitation.
He set a hand upon hers, preventing her from rising. He was close over the table, and she was aware of his tension, a strange, erratic heat, and the power of his hold.
“Miss Montgomery, we are discussing an important issue here, that of whether or not I shall have your guardian arrested. If you find seeking the truth to be offensive, you will simply have to take offense then. I repeat, just what do you do?”
She felt the surge of her own temper, but she was determined to stare him down and not wrench away to free herself, not when such a fight would be futile.
“I work, sir, for the museum, for the department of Egyptian Antiquities!” she hissed.
If she had flatly told him that she was a prostitute, she would not have gotten such a stunned and angry response, she was certain.
“You what?”
The words were a pure roar. Stunned by his reaction, she frowned and repeated herself. “I enunciate quite clearly, I believe. I work for the museum, for the department of Egyptian Antiquities.”
He rose so suddenly that he knocked his chair over backward.
“It is a perfectly legitimate job, and I assure you, I am qualified for my position!” she expounded.
To her absolute amazement, he walked around the table with the same violence with which he had risen.
“My Lord Stirling!” she protested, standing, but his hands were on her shoulders, and he was staring at her with such loathing that she was afraid for her person.
“And you claim you came here for nothing!” he said.
She gasped. “You think that I have come here for anything other than the return of a human being I love? I am dearly sorry, sir, but your noble position in life does not excuse you from this outrageous display of bad manners—and violence!”
His hands dropped from her shoulders and he stepped back. But his eyes remained blue flames of an intensity that pierced her very soul.
“Should I discover, Miss Montgomery, that your words are a lie, I do assure you, you have not begun to realize the state to which my bad manners and violence might rise.”
He turned as if the sight of her were so repulsive he couldn’t bear it any longer. He strode to the door and exited. The reverberation created as the door slammed in his wake seemed to shake the entire castle.
Trembling, Camille remained on her feet, staring at the door, long after he had gone.
“You are truly a wretched creature!” she cried then, certain that he was far beyond earshot.
The door opened. She tensed.
It was Mrs. Prior. “You poor dear!” she exclaimed. “He does have such a ferocious temper. I try constantly to make him see it, but…quite honestly, he can be charming and kind.”
“I must see my guardian. And I must take him from this place,” Camille said, fighting for what dignity she might summon. “Away from that monster.”
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Prior said. “Truly, he’s not such a monster. It’s just that…well, it is quite shocking that you work for the museum, dear.”
“It’s an honorable position!” she said.
“Yes. Well…” Mrs. Prior cast her head at an angle, studying Camille. Perhaps she, at least, approved of what she saw. She lowered her voice. “It’s just that your employers—well, the group dealing with your department—were all there when…”
“When what?”
“When his lordship’s parents were murdered,” Mrs. Prior said. “It’s not your fault, dear, but still…. Do come along, then, please. I’ll bring you to your guardian.” She paused, looking back. “Honestly, dear, he may look a bit beastly, and perhaps his behavior thus far has been horrid, but there is that dire fact of those terrible murders having completely changed his life.”

CHAPTER THREE
CAMILLE HURRIED ALONG after Evelyn. “Wait, please. I’ve heard the rumors, of course. Everyone in London has heard the rumors. Perhaps if I understood more about what happened, I could even be—”
The word helpful never left her lips because Evelyn, who had been moving rapidly before her, came to a dead stop, throwing open a door. Camille, in her hurry to keep up, nearly plowed into Evelyn’s back. Then Evelyn spoke as if she hadn’t been listening to a word that Camille had said. “Here, child. Your guardian.”
Thoughts concerning her host and his wretched behavior flew from her mind as she looked into the darkened room and blinked. A fire burned at the hearth, but all was cast into shadow. She felt her heart skip a beat as her eyes at last fell upon the figure on the bed. Still. Dead still.
“Oh, dear God!” she exhaled, trembling, her knees going wobbly.
Evelyn spun around, catching her by the arms, offering support before she buckled completely.
“No, no, dear! He was so restless that we gave him laudanum. He isn’t at all dead. Well, I guess you can’t actually be partially dead…Here I am, making no sense. He’s all right. He probably won’t be coherent, not that I seem to be doing much of a job in that direction.” Evelyn, who had appeared such a composed woman, apparently did have a sense of sympathy, and was therefore flustered by Camille’s heartfelt and terrified show of emotion. “Dear girl!” Evelyn continued. “Run on over, give him a hug. He may wake enough to recognize you.”
Not dead, not dead, not dead! That was all that registered in Camille’s mind. Then Evelyn’s words sank in and she found the strength to tear across the room to the bed. Once there, she saw that there was color in Tristan’s face and that he was breathing deeply.
In fact, as she hovered just above him, afraid for a moment to touch, he let out the most winded snort she had heard in the whole of her life. Flushing, she turned back to the door where Evelyn Prior remained.
“See, he is quite alive,” Evelyn assured her softy again.
Camille nodded, then looked down at her guardian. He was dressed in a handsome linen nightgown—something he had never possessed in all his life, she was certain. He’d been cared for and well tended, that was obvious. The monster of Carlyle wanted his prisoners to be in decent shape when he saw them prosecuted, so it appeared.
She fell to her knees by Tristan’s side, clutching his shoulders in a gentle hug, laying her head against his chest. “Tristan!” she whispered softly, tears springing to her eyes. Whatever sins he had committed in his life, he had surely redeemed himself when he had saved her, when he had given up his goods—ill-gotten and by other means—to feed a number of the street urchins they had known in their days together. But why now, when she had come to a point in her life where she could take care of them…?
“You sorry son of a sailor!” she muttered, lifting her head, angrily wiping tears from her cheeks. “Tristan, what on earth were you doing?” she whispered fervently.
He inhaled on another snort, blinked and met her eyes. Tenderness came to his, the gentleness that really was the crux of the man. “Camille, moppet! Camille….” He frowned, as if aware that she shouldn’t be there. But the effort was too much. He blinked again, but his eyes closed, and she heard only the depth of his breathing once again.
“You see?” Evelyn called from the doorway. “The man has been quite decently tended. Now, come along, dear. I’ll show you where you may sleep tonight.”
She rose, kissed Tristan on the forehead, adjusted his covers and then turned to follow Evelyn. The woman led her out, closed the door firmly but silently and started down the hall again at a brisk speed.
“Mrs. Prior,” Camille began, racing after her, “I can see that no harm has been done to my guardian, but, as you can understand, I’m anxious to get him home.”
“I’m sorry, dear, but I do believe that Brian intends to prosecute.”
“Brian?” she murmured, puzzled.
“The Earl of Carlyle,” Mrs. Prior said patiently.
“Oh, but he can’t! He mustn’t!”
“Perhaps you’ll be able to talk him out of it in the morning. Oh, dear! If only you hadn’t worked for the museum!”
“To the very best of my knowledge, Mrs. Prior, many people have fallen prey to Egyptian asps. It is a danger of the desert region.”
Mrs. Prior stared at her in a way that made her feel severely uncomfortable, as if she had, until that point, been deemed an intelligent young woman.
“This is your door, Miss Montgomery. The castle is large and winding, started with the Norman Conquest and built on ever since, not always with the best architectural eye! I suggest you refrain from roaming in the night. There is a quite modern bath connected to this guest room, I do say with some pride. Night clothing and toiletries have been left at your disposal. In the morning, dear, this situation will be solved, one way or the other.”
“Yes…thank you. But wait! Perhaps, if I understood more—”
“The earl is awaiting me, Miss Montgomery. Sleep well.”
“Oh! But Ralph, our valet—”
“Has been seen to!” Mrs. Prior called back over her shoulder. She disappeared around a corner.
Somewhat aggravated by her dismissal, Camille stepped into the hallway, debating the course of simply running after the woman and demanding more answers.
But just as easily as Evelyn Prior had disappeared, the hound from hell reappeared. It sat in the hallway and stared at her. She had never known before that dogs could actually sneer and dare someone, but that was exactly what this hound was doing.
She pointed at the animal. “You, sir, will get yours one day!” she vowed.
The dog growled.
Camille stepped quickly into the room she had been assigned and closed the door. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes with a beating heart, conflicting emotions racing through her. Then she opened her eyes and gasped.
The room was quite incredible. The bed was handsomely canopied, topped with a rich, embroidered ivory quilt and numerous pillows. The rest of the furnishings were…Egyptian.
Startled, she walked across to the dressing table and realized that certain pieces from antiquity had been copied for the decor and combined with current Victorian detail to create something of a fantasy. A dressing table with smooth, stark lines was topped with a threefold mirror, carved with a symbol of the god Horus, wings spread, in a typical manner of protection. A large trunk was covered with hieroglyphs, as was the tall standing wardrobe. Chairs that stood before draperies were carved with the great protective wings of Horus, as well.
She turned and was startled by a large statue of a pharaoh. Walking toward it, she narrowed her eyes. The statue was real. Hatshepsut, she thought, the female pharaoh who had herself displayed with a beard, showing her world that she was a woman, but one with the power of a man.
The statue was surely priceless. And set here, in a guest room? It was a museum piece, she thought angrily.
On the other side of the door, she discovered another life-size statue, this one of the goddess Anat. A war goddess, Anat was supposed to protect the pharaoh in battle. She was usually sculpted or drawn with a shield, a lance and a battle-ax. This statue was slightly damaged. Still, a great find. A priceless relic! And here, in a guest room!
Camille stepped back, wondering if she had purposely been given this room. The statues might well unnerve most women. In fact, she was certain that many a young respectable woman—the type preparing for her season before society—might well awake in the night terrified and screaming bloody murder, certain the curse of the castle had awakened the statues, that they had become real and were seeking her in the night…. In the firelight, they were decidedly eerie, Camille admitted.
“But I’m not afraid!” she said aloud, then winced. It was as if she were assuring some long-dead or mythical creature that she was beyond its control. “Nonsense!” she whispered to herself.
Two lamps burned on stark little tables on either side of the bed. They, too, were in Egyptian motifs. And rather shockingly, both depicted the fertility god Min with his huge, erect phallus and double-plumed headdress. Camille hardly thought herself prudish, but really…!
Shaking her head, she had a feeling that she would not have been assigned to this room if she hadn’t tempted the earl’s fury with her assertion of the truth—that she worked for the museum. She had been sent here, she was certain, with a sense of vengeance. With that thought, she smiled. Fine.
She ventured more fully into the room, pulling back the draperies behind the chairs. There were, indeed, windows there. At one time, she was certain, they had not held panes, nor had they been quite so large. They showed the width of the castle stone, and in that they were far more startling than the Egyptian artifacts. At one time, these walls had been made for protection. Castle Carlyle had once defied the swords and arrows of the enemy, just as surely as the earl now defended himself from English society behind his bastion of stone and strength.
She let out a sigh, itching to race back to Tristan’s room and give him a thorough tongue-lashing, even if he couldn’t hear her. But she knew that the hellhound would be beyond her door, keeping watch. So she shook her head, walked to the bed and picked up the linen gown left for her, determined to find the bath.
Toiletries had been provided as promised, and the bath was quite modern with a tub, commode and running water. The earl might have his wicked sense of justice wherein he thought ancient artifacts might disturb a body’s sleep, but at least the room came with niceties far beyond those to which she was accustomed.
A candle burned in the bath, and by it was a tray with brandy and glasses. Without hesitation, she drew hot water into the massive tub, then stripped, poured herself brandy and settled in.
How strange! The night was quite a disaster, yet here she was, luxuriating in a hot bath, sipping brandy. Frowning, she reminded herself that the situation was extremely dire.
She felt herself tense and wasn’t at all sure why she did so. A sixth sense gave her warning of something being not right. She held very still and thought that she heard something. Movement. Not a rustling. Not footsteps. Just…as if stone had shifted against stone.
She waited, but the sound didn’t come again. Had she imagined it? Then, from outside the bedroom door, she suddenly heard a furious barking. Whatever had seeped into her senses, the dog had heard it, too.
She nearly threw her brandy down, but managed to set it upon the throw rug on the floor. She leaped out of the tub and into a heavy brocade dressing gown that hung on the bathroom door. It occurred to her that perhaps she should be locking herself into the room, but instinct sent panic into her veins, and she knew she had to find the source of the noise that had given rise to such a state of distress.
As she burst out into the bedroom, she heard herself being called.
“Miss Montgomery!” It was the Earl of Carlyle himself, shouting her name.
She ran forward as the door burst open. There they were, staring at one another. He, blue eyes sharp behind the beast of the mask, she, most startled and feeling terribly vulnerable, hair wild about her face, robe not at all decently closed.
She caught at the edges, seeking the tie.
The dog rushed into the room. He was no longer barking, but standing by its master’s legs, sniffing the air, rigid.
“Ahem.” The beast actually cleared his throat. “You’re quite all right?” he asked.
She couldn’t find her voice at first, so she nodded.
“Did you hear anything?” he demanded.
“I…don’t know.”
He let out an oath of impatience. “Miss Montgomery, either you did or didn’t hear something. Was someone here?” He frowned, as if sincerely doubting the possibility of such a situation but determined he must ask.
“No!”
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“I…don’t believe so.”
“You don’t believe? Then why do you appear to have bolted from the bath as if chased by demons from hell?”
“There seemed to be…I don’t know,” she said, lifting her chin. “A scraping sound from somewhere.” She squared her shoulders. “But as you—and your creature—can surely see, there is no one here. I assume that ancient places such as this might well creak.”
“Mmm,” he murmured.
She hated the mask. It hid all but his eyes, leaving her feeling as if she were continually dueling without all the weapons she needed in her corner. She stiffened again, determined on dignity. “Do you mind, My Lord? I am an unwilling guest at best, and as so, would prefer my own company at this hour.”
To her surprise, he seemed reluctant to leave.
“You do not find the room…disturbing?”
“No. Did you intend that I should?”
He waved a hand in the air. “I am not referring to the decor,” he said.
“Then…?”
“The creaking, or whatever it is that you—and my monster dog—apparently heard.”
She shook her head, thinking on the one hand that she was a fool. Yes! I want out of the room, an inner voice cried. But she wouldn’t let this man know that she could be frightened. Not in any way.
“I’m quite content to remain here,” she told him.
He studied her, and she thought that he might well insist that she do so. He didn’t. Instead he said, “I will leave the dog, then.”
“What?”
“I promise, you will be safe from creaks and groans, no matter what, with Ajax in attendance.”
“Ajax hates me!” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Come. Give him a pat on the head.”
She just stared at the man incredulously.
She was amazed to realize that he was actually smiling. “You’re afraid of the dog?”
“You, sir, must not be ridiculous. I merely respect such a creature.”
“Come. You’ll have nothing to fear when he knows I wish him to look out for you.”
She moved forward, once again determined not to betray fear. Yet, even as she did so, her heart was pounding. But it wasn’t the dog. It was proximity to the man, she knew.
As she came near, he gripped her hand, not with any cruelty, just simple impatience. He laid it atop the dog’s head. The animal whined and thumped its tail.
She felt the size of the Earl of Carlyle, his height, his very vital touch. Like a coiled snake, he seemed mercurial with energy, with something explosive within. It was hypnotic, like the heat of a fire. She stepped back, staring at him. “I’m really not afraid here. I’m sure that your dog—”
“He likes you.”
“How nice,” she murmured.
“Yes, actually, it is. He is a sound judge of character. He is most wary of your guardian.”
She forced a grim smile. “Is that a reminder, My Lord, that we are prisoners here? That we are being…bribed, perhaps?”
She expected anger, something other than the dry laugh of amusement she received in return. “Perhaps. I will leave Ajax and rest assured myself that you will be safe and well throughout the hours of darkness. Good night, Miss Montgomery.”
“Now wait!” she began.
“Good night,” he repeated. He turned and was gone, closing the door behind him in a way that brooked no objection.
Camille stared after him, incredulous and angry. Had he left the dog because he thought she might be up to something? Or because he thought she might be in danger? Was she being watched, or guarded?
Ajax, staring at her, whined and thumped his tail. He padded over to her, still wagging his tail. She petted him on the head again. Huge eyes looked up at her. They seemed adoring now.
“You are really such a fine and handsome fellow,” she told him. “What is it with you and that sneer and your growling? Is it all a facade?” A facade. Like the mask his master wore?
It was all quite ridiculous. And yet, it seemed that the lamps flickered suddenly when there should have been no breeze. Deep in his throat, Ajax let out a warning sound.
“What is it, boy?” she whispered. Despite herself, she felt a deep unease. But the statues were unmoving. The room was empty.
“I think, my fine fellow, that I’m going to finish my brandy. And I must admit, I’m glad to have your company.”
Ajax must have believed her. When she finally doused the lamps—all but one, which she kept by her side—he leaped up on the foot of the bed. Thank God that it was a large bed. Still, she was glad to have him there, sitting sentinel through the night.
IN THE MORNING, she congratulated herself on befriending the dog. Now she could move about the castle as she chose.
She was determined to head straight to Tristan’s room and have it out with the fellow before having to face the master of the castle again. If she knew exactly what Tristan had done and what had transpired, she’d be better able to stand up for him. But the minute she walked out the door, the giant who had brought her in the night before greeted her. Had he just been standing around in the hall all morning, waiting? It appeared to be so.
“His lordship is waiting for you in the solarium,” the man told her gravely.
“Ah, what a surprise,” she murmured. “Lead on, please.”
Ajax trotted at her side as the man led her along the hallway, across the landing from the lower floor and into the next wing of the sprawling castle. Here, one giant room, a ballroom perhaps, led into another. Glass lined much of the ceiling, and it was actually quite beautiful, with the morning sun casting bright rays through to light the marble flooring and elegantly papered walls.
The earl was there, not seated but standing, hands clasped behind his back, at one of the long windows overlooking a central garden.
“Good morning, Miss Montgomery,” he said, turning to greet her. Due to the mask, she was ever more aware of the sharp blue color and piercing quality of his eyes.
“Indeed, it seems fine enough.”
“Were you able to sleep well enough after the disturbance?” he inquired politely, as if she were certainly a welcome guest.
“I slept just fine, thank you.”
“Ajax was no trouble?”
“Ajax is a lamb, just as Mrs. Prior informed me.”
“Usually,” he agreed pleasantly enough. “Well, you must join me for some breakfast, Miss Montgomery. I hope we have something that you might desire. Omelettes, oatmeal, toast, jam, bacon, fish…?”
“I seldom eat heavily in the morning, Lord Stirling, but I do thank you for your generous hospitality. However, I hate to take advantage of it.”
He smiled, quite grimly, she was certain.
“Hospitality is easily afforded here.”
“Too easily,” she said sharply.
“I do apologize for my lack of manners last night, but you did take me quite by surprise. So you work for the museum?”
She sighed deeply. “I am quite knowledgeable, I assure you. And yes, I work for the museum.”
He walked to the table that had been set with shimmering silver, a snowy cloth and chafing dishes. From an urn he poured a cup of coffee. “Tea, Miss Montgomery? Or do you prefer coffee?”
“Tea will be lovely, thank you,” she murmured.
“How long have you worked for the museum?” he asked.
“About six months.”
“And your work for the museum had nothing to do with your guardian’s appearance here?” he asked.
The words were politely spoken but they had a frightening edge. She decided that she liked him better when he was angry. There was something quite unnerving about the ease of his movement and the pleasantness of his tone.
She accepted the cup of tea he offered to her, and with little choice, also took a seat in the chair he pulled out for her convenience. He sat next to her, close, his chair at an angle, his knee nearly touching hers.
“Lord Stirling, I do assure you, Tristan is in no way involved with my work!” She didn’t add that she kept her guardian as far from the museum as she could at all times. “I swear to you, I gained my position there through knowledge, work and dogged determination! And I’m terribly afraid that I am going to lose that position,” she added bitterly. “Sir John has no tolerance for tardiness.”
“Sir John?”
“Sir John Matthews. He is my immediate superior.”
“The department is run by David, Lord Wimbly,” he said sharply.
“Yes, yes. But Lord Wimbly seldom…” She refrained from saying that the man seldom actually worked! “He has many functions to attend. His work is seldom at the museum itself. Sir John sees to the actual care and study of the exhibitions. He works closely with two men who have been on many excavations themselves, Alex Mittleman and Aubrey Sizemore. When there is a new exhibit, Lord Wimbly is present, and with Sir Hunter MacDonald, they make the arrangements. They also choose what purchases shall be made for the galleries, and they are in charge of seeing who receives grants for study and further expeditions.”
“Where do you fit in?” he demanded.
She flushed slightly. “I read hieroglyphics. And naturally, loving the subject as I do, I have the patience and care to work with artifacts.”
“How did you get the job?” he demanded.
“I was there one day when Sir John happened to be working alone. I had come to view a new exhibit of artifacts from the New Kingdom, when a box arrived. Sir John could not find his glasses, and I was able to decipher the information he needed from a stone within. He needed someone. There was a meeting and I was hired.”
He had been staring at her steadily all the while. She continued to feel ill at ease, aware that she had seldom been watched quite so intensely.
She set her cup down. “I don’t know why on earth you believe that I’m lying or making any of this up. You are free to ask any of the men involved, and you’ll learn that I’m telling the truth. However, this job is important to me.” She hesitated. “My guardian…well, his past has not always been the most pure. I am doing all that I can, My Lord, to see that we are respectable. I’m deeply distressed that Tristan fell over your wall—”
He interrupted her with a choked sound of laughter. “Imagine! And I had been about to believe your every word!” he exclaimed.
She felt her anger rising, and also her color, for he had every right to laugh. She stood. “I’m afraid, Lord Stirling, that you are doing nothing but seeking revenge upon me as well as Tristan, and that there is nothing I can say or do that will stop you from pressing charges. I can tell you only that my work is very important to me, that Tristan is often foolish and misled but never evil, and that, if you’re going to press charges, you must just go ahead and do so. If I don’t appear at work soon, I will surely be fired. That may not matter, because I would never deny my association with Tristan, and once you file charges, word will get out and I will lose my job anyway.”
“Oh, do sit down, Miss Montgomery,” he said, suddenly sounding weary. “I admit that as yet I’m still feeling a bit…wary, shall we say? Regarding you both. However, for the moment, I suggest that you take a chance. Play along with me. If you’re ready, we’ll get you into work right now, and I’ll see to it personally that you receive no reprimands for tardiness.”
Stunned, she sat in silence.
“Sit. Finish your tea.”
She sat, a frown creasing her brow. “But—”
“I haven’t been to the museum in quite a while. I wasn’t even aware of how the hierarchy in your department worked. I think a journey in will be quite appropriate for me at this time.” He rose. “If you’ll be so good as to be at the front door in five minutes…?”
“But what about Tristan?”
“He needs the day in bed.”
“I have barely even seen him. I must get him home.”
“Not today, Miss Montgomery. Shelby will have the carriage at the museum doors at closing time.”
“But—?”
“Yes, what haven’t I covered?”
“I…must go home. And then, there’s Ralph.”
“Ralph can tend to your guardian today. He won’t be leaving. I’ve seen to it that he has lodgings in the metal smith’s place in the courtyard.”
“Really, Lord Stirling, you can’t just keep people prisoner.”
“Actually, I can. I rather think they’ll be more comfortable here than in jail, don’t you?”
“You are bribing me! Blackmailing me!” she choked. “You are toying with me, playing some kind of game!”
“Yes, but you’re a smart young woman, and therefore, you should play this game my way.”
He turned to leave, perfectly aware that she would do as he had suggested. Ajax might have decided that he liked her, but certainly no more than his master. The giant hound trotted out in Lord Stirling’s wake.
When they were both gone, she jumped to her feet. “I will not be made a pawn!” she swore aloud. But then she sank back into the chair again, staring across the expanse of the long hall. Yes, she would be made a pawn. She really had no choice at this minute.
She finished her tea, angry. And when she was done, she made her way from the wing to the great stairway. The Earl of Carlyle was waiting for her at the bottom.
She stopped before him, chin raised, shoulders squared. “There must be some agreement between us, Lord Stirling.”
“Oh?”
“You must promise not to prosecute.”
“Because I’m bringing you into London, to work?” he inquired.
“You are using me somehow, sir.”
“Then let’s just see how useful you prove to be, shall we?”
He opened the door. “You are buying a great deal of time, and since you arrived out here of your own accord last evening, I think it’s rather chivalrous of me to see to it that you maintain your employment.”
Her lashes fell and she walked past him.
The carriage, with the man, Shelby, driving, was waiting for them at the door. She was so angry that she jerked her arm away when the beast of the castle would have helped her in. She nearly careened off the step, but, thank God, saved herself. She somewhat crashed into the forward seat of the carriage, but that didn’t matter since she was able to rectify her position before he joined her, sitting on the opposite side. He carried a silver-knobbed walking stick, and he tapped it against the top of the carriage.
As they started out, she fixed her eyes on the view.
“What is going on in that devious little mind, Miss Montgomery?” he inquired.
She turned to him. “I was thinking, My Lord, that you need a new gardener.”
He laughed, the sound oddly pleasant. “Ah, but I like my deep, dark woods and the tangle of vines within them!”
She didn’t reply, but once again stared out the window.
“You don’t approve?”
She looked at him. “I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered,” she said. “But I’m equally sorry that a man of your position should hide himself away because of that suffering when you could be doing so very much for so many people.”
“I am not at fault for the ills of the world.”
“The world is better when the life of one man, or one woman, is improved, sir.”
He lowered his head slightly. For a moment, she couldn’t even see the sardonic curl of his lips or the intense blue of his eyes.
“What would you have me do?”
“There are dozens of things you could do!” she informed him. “With this property.”
“Shall I cut it into tiny lots and divvy it out?” he asked.
She shook her head impatiently. “No, but…you could bring the children from orphanages out here, let them have just a day with a lovely picnic! You could hire many more people, have beautiful grounds, give employment to some who desperately need it. Not that it will change all the ills in society, but—”
She broke off as he leaned forward. “How do you know, Miss Montgomery, that I don’t contribute to the welfare of others?”
He was very close to her. She didn’t think she had ever seen anything quite so intense, so silencing, so commanding and condemning as his eyes. She found that she wasn’t even breathing.
“I don’t,” she managed to say at last.
He sat back.
“But!” she said. “I know what I have heard about you. And you are one of the most powerful men in our kingdom. I’ve heard that the Queen and your parents were devoted friends. I’ve heard that you are one of the—”
“One of the what?”
She looked out the window again, afraid that she was being quite crass. But then again, she was the daughter of an East End prostitute.
“That you are one of the richest men in the country. And since you were so blessed at birth, you should be thankful. Other men have lost their families, and they cannot all be bitter.”
“Really?”
She had angered him.
“Tell me, Miss Montgomery, should murderers go free?”
“Of course not! But if I understand correctly, your parents were killed by snakes! Egyptian cobras. Again, I am sorry, but there is no man to blame for that!”
He didn’t answer then, choosing to look out the window instead. She realized then that, far more than the mask itself, he had managed to build an emotional wall around himself. He didn’t intend to speak with her anymore, she knew. And despite herself, she couldn’t force the point.
She, too, gazed out the window until they came into the bustle and jog of London and then to the museum itself. He didn’t allow her to refuse his help when stepping out of the carriage, and neither did he release her elbow as they headed for the building. Before the door, however, he suddenly came to a halt, turning her to face him.
“Believe me, Miss Montgomery, there is a murderer who brought about the death of my parents. I believe that the killer is someone we both know, perhaps even someone you see nearly every day.”
A chill enwrapped her heart. She didn’t believe his words, but she believed the fever in his eyes.
“Come along,” he said then, walking once again. Almost casually he added, “Whatever I say or do, you will go along with, Miss Montgomery.”
“Lord Stirling, perhaps I can’t—”
“But you will!” he said firmly, and she fell silent, for they had reached the great doors to her place of employment.

CHAPTER FOUR
LORD STIRLING knew his way.
Employees and visitors alike seemed to know him or of him, for many greeted him—all trying not to stare at the mask—with respect and a bit of awe. Perhaps it was his size, his height and the breadth of his shoulders, the casual and handsome way he wore his clothing. Or the way he carried himself. Or the mere fact of who he was.
“I work in a back room on the—”
“Second floor, of course,” he murmured.
They came to the section, and he immediately headed her toward the door that led to the rooms that were not open to the public. She pulled free then, nervously hurrying before him. Inside the first office, they came first upon Sir John Matthews, who was seated behind the entry desk, papers piled in disarray before him.
“There you are, at last! My dear Miss Montgomery! You know my opinion of those who cannot manage to arrive in a timely manner. I—” He broke off, seeing the Earl of Carlyle coming behind her. “Lord Stirling!” he exclaimed, astonished.
“John, my good fellow. How are you doing?”
“I…I…quite well!” Sir John said, still appearing somewhat in shock. “Brian, I’m stunned, pleased, delighted! Does your appearance here mean that you’ll be…”
Brian Stirling laughed pleasantly. “Contributing to the Egyptology department again?” he queried.
Sir John flushed a rose hue, bright against his white whiskers and hair. “Dear me, that’s not what I meant at all, really. You’re family…you…well, all were so learned in the field. To have your enthusiasm involved here again would be quite fantastic!”
Camille could see Lord Stirling’s lips curl and pleasantly so. She wondered if he might have felt a modicum of affection for Sir John at some time in his life.
“That’s kind of you, John. Actually, I was considering attending your fund-raiser this weekend.”
“Good God!” Sir John exclaimed. “Really?”
He looked from Camille to Lord Stirling, then back again, completely baffled. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, as if their appearance together should perhaps make sense, but certainly didn’t in any way.
Stirling stared at Camille. “You will be attending—correct, Miss Montgomery?”
“Oh, no!” she said quickly. She felt a flush rise to her own cheeks. “I’m not a senior member of the staff,” she murmured.
“Miss Montgomery has not been with us long,” Sir John murmured.
“Ah, but of course you will attend, Miss Montgomery, as my escort back into a world where I might feel quite lost were you not with me.”
He wasn’t making a request. And simply because of his tone, she longed to refuse. But she was being bribed or blackmailed, whichever word fit the situation better.
Sir John stood staring at her, eyes narrowed, still at a loss as to how she had come to be in the company of such a man as the earl.
“Camille, if the Earl of Carlyle would be more comfortable attending in your company, you will be here.”
Stirling walked across the few steps that brought him before Camille, reaching for her hands, taking them into his own. “John!” he said, looking at Camille even as he addressed the man. “Please! You mustn’t make it sound as if you’re threatening the lass!”
Those sharp blue eyes of his focused on her with some humor. There was no need at all for Sir John to threaten her. She already knew that she was being threatened. Yet, along with whatever other skills he had acquired through the years, he was an excellent actor, for it appeared that he was being pleasant, as courteous and correct as his breeding should merit.
She tried to pull her hands away casually, but his grip was firm. She forced a smile. “How very kind of you, Lord Stirling. I’m afraid I should be a rather humble choice for such an evening.”
“Nonsense. We are living in the age of enlightenment. What better choice for an evening’s companion than a young woman who is not just beautiful, but intelligent and so very well versed on the subject of the evening’s passion.”
“Camille!” Sir John murmured, prodding her.
Stirling’s smile was a bit grim, and definitely amused. She longed to jerk hard on her hands. In fact, she longed to tell him that she’d rather spend the evening in an opium den with hoods and thieves.
“It’s not…the mask, is it?” he queried.
Oh, what a tone! The man was playing upon pathos now! “No,” she said sweetly. “This is the age of enlightenment, My Lord, as you have said. No man, or woman, should ever be judged by appearance.”
“Bravo!” Sir John complimented.
Apparently her tormenter decided that he wasn’t going to wait for her actual agreement. “Then, indeed, yes, John, I will attend the upcoming fund-raiser. And you may be assured that both my interest and my income are returned full score to the pursuit of our educational ideals. Well, you’ve work to do, and I caused Miss Montgomery’s tardiness. And now, I fear, I am taking more time. John, it is, indeed, a pleasure to see you so well—a bit disarrayed as ever in your studies and intents, but looking hale and hearty. Miss Montgomery, Shelby will be here with the carriage to attend to you at…six, is it?”
“It’s usually at least six-thirty,” she murmured, aware that Sir John was now staring at them both, gaping.
Stirling decided to let him out of his curiosity, a feeling so strong it was surely about to tear Sir John into pieces. “This dear young woman’s guardian had quite an accident on the highway last night—imagine, if you will, right at my property. Naturally, he is my guest. And quite naturally, Miss Montgomery came in haste and fear to tend to him. To my great delight, Castle Carlyle is hosting guests once again. So good day, then, to you both.”
“G-good day, Brian!” Sir John stuttered, still staring at Stirling as he turned about, exiting casually, yet with the natural dignity of a man born to position.
He was gone for several moments before Sir John—who stared blankly after him long after he disappeared from sight—turned to Camille, amazed.
“Good God!” he said.
She could offer only a grimace and a shrug.
“This is quite amazing!”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know,” she murmured. “I…merely went out to tend to my guardian.”
“An accident?” Sir John said, frowning. “He’s going to be all right?”
Sir John was a decent fellow. He seemed disturbed to realize that events had made him completely forget to ask after the welfare of a fellow human being.
“Yes, yes, thank you. We believe he has suffered some bruises, but nothing serious.”
“These hansom and carriage drivers!” Sir John said with a sniff. “They can be so careless and reckless. Then again, it doesn’t take much to set a fellow up driving!” He seemed quite disgusted that there was no training necessary for drivers, despite the fact that many a rich man, and probably several of his peers, had invested in such cabs, heedless of who might be driving.
She smiled, refraining from informing him that the “accident” had not involved a cab or, indeed, a conveyance of any kind.
He still stared at her troubled. “Quite remarkable,” he said.
“Well,” she murmured, lowering her eyes. “If you’re pleased, then…”
“Pleased!” Sir John exclaimed. “My dear girl, Lord Stirling’s parents were such patrons of this museum, you cannot imagine. And more! They were deeply devoted to the people of Egypt, anxious that, with foreign powers lending aid, the people should not suffer. And the work they did!” He studied her a moment longer, then seemed to make a decision. “Come with me, Camille dear, and I’ll show you a bit of their legacy.”
She was startled. So far, her work had entailed exactly what they chose to hand her—usually the most tedious work—and nothing more. But now Sir John intended to take her into the vaults, the storage facilities of the museum.
She was fascinated to realize that she had her threatening host to thank for this possibility. She hated feeling that she owed him any thanks whatsoever, but she wasn’t about to miss this opportunity.
“Thank you, Sir John,” she said.
He acquired a set of keys from his desk and brought her out of the offices, down stairs and through hallways, and then down once again. Here, the corridors were dark and the rooms were filled with wooden crates, some items unpacked, some in stages of being opened. They passed by a number of boxes that had come from Turkey and Greece and onward, until they reached a section shrouded in shadow. Some of the crates here were open. Smaller crates had been removed, and there was a row of sarcophagi still nestled in larger coffinlike boxes, cradled by their packing material.
“Here!” Sir John said, sweeping his arms to indicate the array of treasures.
Camille looked around slowly. There were definitely many riches here.
“Only half, of course. Many of the artifacts went to the castle,” Sir John said. A scowl furrowed his brow. “Then there were several boxes that simply went missing.”
“Perhaps they’re at the castle, as well.”
“I don’t think so,” Sir John murmured. “But, of course, transporting these goods…ah, who knows! Still, Lord and Lady Stirling were always tremendously detailed about their work. Everything written down…” He paused, looking abashed. “I believe the boxes did arrive. But no matter. Their last find was so rich, we’ve not managed to begin to study and catalogue what we’ve got.”
“These were discovered by Lord Stirling’s parents just before they died, I assume,” Camille said.
Sir John nodded. “The small pieces and reliefs you are translating are from the same find,” he explained. “A glorious, glorious find.” He shook his head sadly. “Such a marvelous couple! Very aware of their responsibility to the Queen, but both devoted to study! It was quite amazing that Lord Stirling found a woman such as he did. Ah, Lady Stirling! I remember her well. No woman could so gracefully and kindly greet a room of friends, old or new. She was a stunning woman, simply beautiful. And yet, she could crawl into the dirt, work with a shovel or a brush, study texts, seek the answers to mysteries…” His voice faded. “Such a loss…”
Sir John’s white hair glimmered in the pale gaslight of the museum depths as he shook his head once again. But then he grimaced sadly. “I had feared that Brian would hole up forever at that castle of his, tangled now with overgrowth, ever dark and forbidding, believing that his parents had been killed. But it appears he may at last be coming to terms with the past and dealing with his grief. And, my dear girl, if you have had anything to do with this magnificent rebirth of interest, you are perhaps the most valuable asset I have brought into the museum.”
“Well, Sir John, thank you. But I hardly think that I’ve had much of an influence upon the man. We’re not at all well acquainted.”
“But he wishes you to attend the gala fund-raiser with him!”
“Yes,” she murmured. She refrained from telling Sir John that it had nothing to do with the fact that he looked forward to her company.
Sir John frowned. “Camille, are you aware that this man is the Earl of Carlyle? Frankly, I’m flabbergasted that a man with such a pedigree would deign to ask a commoner anywhere. No insult intended, my child. It’s just that…well, we English do have our society.”
“Hmm. Well, as we’ve all agreed, it is the age of enlightenment, is it not?”
“An earl, Miss Montgomery. Even with his face hideously scarred, such a thing is unheard of!”
The man was not intentionally being cruel, but he continued to stare at her, and she felt as if she had grown some strange appendage. She was in no position to explain that she sincerely doubted the Earl of Carlyle had revitalized his interest in the museum, aside from continuing his quest to find the presumed murderer of his parents. And it didn’t matter a whit to him whether she was noble or as common as dirt, as long as she served his purpose.
“Are you afraid of the man? Because of the scarring, or even his reputation?” Sir John demanded.
“No.”
“You are not repulsed.”
“A man’s manner and conviction in life can be far uglier than his face, Sir John.”
“Well-spoken, Camille!” he applauded, beaming. “Come along, then! We’ve work to do. As you are transcribing, I’ll be happy to tell you more about the find they made. Naturally, the tombs of pharaohs are thought to have been the most magnificent. But sadly, most of those were plundered long ago. The very great thing about the Stirlings’ discovery of the tomb of Nefershut is that, though the man was a high priest, he was regarded with awe, was wealthier than Midas, and his tomb had not been disturbed. And so many were buried with the man. The Egyptians did not require that a great man’s wives and concubines be buried with him, yet look at this array of sarcophagi! And then there was the matter of the curse.” He waved a hand impatiently in the air. “Apparently, according to popular belief, no tomb discovered can be without a curse. A love of the mysterious, perhaps. We have opened many tombs with no severe warnings at the entry. But in this particular instance—as in some others—there was a curse just inside the tomb. ‘Let he who disturbs the New Life of the blessed one be cursed upon this earth.’ And sadly, the Lord and Lady Stirling died.”
“Did anyone else associated with the dig die?” Camille asked.
Sir John slowly arched a brow with something of a troubled countenance. “I…I don’t know. Certainly no one of the renown of the Stirlings.”
Camille started to turn, thinking she had heard a scraping sound just behind her, where the mummies and their sarcophagi lay.
“Camille! Are you listening to me?” Sir John demanded.
She was amazed that she had been so easily distracted. And it was evident that Sir John hadn’t heard any kind of noise. She was afraid that she was beginning to hear things—taking the small-scale drama that had suddenly invaded her life to greater heights. She loved ancient Egyptian history and all the stories that went with it, but thus far, she had never fallen victim to silly romanticism. She didn’t believe that mummies would rise from their tombs to stalk the living.
“I’m sorry. I thought I heard something.”
“Camille. We’re in a museum. Many people are walking over our heads.”
She smiled. “No, I thought I heard someone in here.”
He sighed with exasperation. “Do you see anyone?”
“No. I just—”
“There are others with keys to the vaults, Camille. We are not the only department in the museum!”
He sounded indignant, and she realized that he was angry he didn’t have her full attention on a very important topic.
“Asps! Camille. Dangerous creatures. Anyone who ventures into Egypt is aware of certain dangers. Though heaven knows, the common tourist is forever traveling down the Nile these days.”
She smiled and refrained from suggesting that everyone had the right to travel, to study, to marvel at the wonders of an ancient world. Even commoners.
“But,” Camille pointed out, “if someone saw to it that the asps were in Lord and Lady Stirling’s apartments, wouldn’t that suggest murder?”
Sir John appeared alarmed. His frown deepened and he looked around quickly, as if afraid they had been followed. He shook his head. “Don’t even think such an idea!” he warned.
“Surely, that is what the current earl must believe.”
He shook his head vehemently. “No! And you mustn’t spread such a suggestion. You mustn’t ever speak such a horrible idea aloud again, Camille. Ever!” He really appeared unnerved. He turned, heading out, but when she didn’t follow quickly enough, he looked back. “Come, come. We’ve used up quite enough time!”
She followed him, sorry that she had voiced her opinion. But one thing was quite certain. She’d be giving her work more painstaking care in the future, now that she knew more about the man, the curse and the find.
“Hurry!” Sir John said, looking back impatiently to assure himself that she was close behind.
“Yes, of course, Sir John,” she replied, hastening her steps.
The museum was already filled with people. She heard different accents—British, Irish and from farther afield—and she was delighted, as always, to see that the museum was well visited.
She loved the museum. It was, she thought, a crowning jewel of England. It had opened to the public on January 15, 1859. At the time, it had been an entirely new kind of institution, governed by a body of trustees responsible to Parliament, with its vast collections belonging to the people. Admission was free, thus, it had been a place she had come as a small child, her hand held safely in the gentle clasp of her mother’s fingers. Her own department was now known as the Department of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities, and they had Napoleon Bonaparte to thank for some of their finest pieces, since he, in his attempt at world conquest, had been the first to go into Egypt with scholars and historians. The British defeat of Napoleon had brought the majority of his collections to the British Museum.
As they walked, they passed the Rosetta Stone, the incredible find that had allowed for the translation of the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.
Continuing through one of the Egyptian halls, she heard a young boy ask his father, “Papa, why do they do it? I don’t understand why it’s all right to dig up the dead, just because they’ve been dead a long time. Aren’t the people afraid when they dig up mummies?”
“Yes, dear, why is it all right to dig up the dead?” the boy’s mother asked. She was pretty, dressed in a handsome muslin day dress and wearing a pert and fashionable bonnet.
“Darling, we’ve moved many of our own, far more recent dead!” the husband replied. He, too, was in high fashion with his gray hat and jacket. “Honestly! The church cemeteries throughout much of our country are defiled in my opinion! Restoration! That’s what they call the projects. Why, in the ‘restoration’ of Salisbury Cathedral all of the gravestones were moved. It’s indecent, I say. Restoration! Bah. But these fellows…the mummies, well, they weren’t of the church, son,” the father replied.
Though she agreed with the man that much of the current “restoration” of historical sites seemed sadly careless of those who had gone before them in their own country, Camille was tempted to stay behind and offer the boy a far different answer regarding the fact that they should respect all countries and beliefs. She might have told the boy about the brilliance of ancient Egyptian engineering, but her duties did not include acting as a tour guide. Pity! She did so enjoy her subject, and would dearly love to be a guide if she were allowed to do so. Then again, she wasn’t a scholar, had never been on a dig and was rather certain she was lucky to be tolerated as it was.
Sir John cast her a warning glare, and she kept walking, offering him a weak smile.
“To work now,” Sir John said firmly. He returned to his desk, instantly lowering his head over his papers. She had a feeling that he was deep in thought, worried perhaps, but not about to show her his concern.
She went for her apron, hanging on a hook in the rear of the room, then entered the little cubicle where she was working on a section of a relief. Lain out on a long work-table, the stone was approximately three feet in height, two in width and three inches thick. The piece was very heavy, crowned with the Egyptian cobra, denoting that the words—the warning, as it were—had been given the blessing of a pharaoh. Each symbol had been beautifully, painstakingly chiseled into the stone, and each was small, thus the reason the tedious task had been given to her. The hierarchy here was also certain that this tablet did no more than reiterate other warnings that had been left around the tomb.
The man buried here had been beloved and revered. Now that Camille was aware of the number of people who had been buried with him, she was ever more fascinated as to exactly why. Had his many wives or concubines been killed to go into the eternal afterlife with him?
She sat down and studied the symbols in whole. She knew that Nefershut had been a high priest, but according to what she had already transcribed, he had been more, perhaps something of a magician for his day. She glanced at the words she had already written. Know all who come here that they have entered the most sacred ground. Disturb not the priest, for he goes into the next life demanding all that was his in this, his time on our earth, as we know it. In his honor, disturb him not. For Nefershut could rule the air, the water. His hand dealt the whisper of the gods, and at his table sat Hethre. His life is blessed beyond this life. His power extends as she sits at his right hand.
“Hethre,” she murmured aloud. “Hethre…who were you exactly, and why is it you are the one mentioned, though you are not mentioned as his wife?”
“The fellow must have had some powerful magic, eh?”
Startled, Camille looked up. She hadn’t heard the arrival of Sir Hunter MacDonald. She straightened, aware of her apron and a lock of hair that had escaped her pins. Certainly, her appearance must display a definite dishabille.
Sir Hunter was striking. Tall, well dressed, with rich, dark hair and eyes. She was aware that among the elite he had a reputation for daring, adventure and charm. And naturally, a reputation for attracting feminine enchantment. Though he might have been something of a rake, it did him no ill, for he was neither married nor even engaged. The mamas and papas among the wealthy and equally as elite could reason that such a young man should certainly sow his wild oats. Therefore, he remained prized as a possible catch in the marriage arena.
Camille could well understand his attraction, for he had always been courteous and charming to her. She was no fool, however, and neither did she intend to live the life that had brought her mother to such a tragic and dismal end. With a certain dry humor she could appreciate the fact that she held an appeal to Hunter, as well. She was hardly among the class from which he would choose a wife, but neither was she one he could seduce for the mere value of entertainment. She would not allow it, and had always made that fact perfectly, if tacitly, clear. It did not prevent him from his continued attempts at charm, however, since he was also a man of enough ego to believe that if he really chose, he would eventually have his way.
“Ah, my dear Miss Montgomery!” Hunter continued, coming to her side. “Ever our glorious scholar, beauty hidden away in a tiny room in a musky old smock!” He leaned upon the table, eyes sparkling. “Alas! You must take care, my darling Camille. The years will pass! You will have spent them, becoming steadily more myopic into your old age, forgetting all about the wonders of the modern world.”
She laughed softly. “Ah, wonders such as yourself, Sir Hunter?”
He grinned ruefully. “Well, I would be happy to escort you about London, you know.”
“I fear the scandal,” she told him.
“One must live a bit recklessly.”
“Easy enough for you, Sir Hunter,” she told him primly. “And I love my work! If I’m to grow old, gray and myopic, there is no better place.”
“But the waste of such youth and beauty is a true tragedy!” he told her.
“You’re most charming, and you know it,” she informed him.
His smile faded and he grew serious. “I’m quite concerned.”
“You are? Why?” she inquired.
He came around and stood by her side, and a bit too tenderly smoothed back a stray lock of her hair. “I’ve just heard that you’ve spent an extraordinary evening—and morning.”
“Oh! The accident,” she murmured.
“You slept last night at Castle Carlyle?” he demanded.
“My guardian was hurt. There was no choice.”
“May I speak bluntly, Camille?” he asked, eyes gentle and serious.
“If that’s what you wish.”
“I fear for you! You mustn’t ever be deceived. The Earl of Carlyle is a monster. He chose his mask as close to his heart as he might. Sir John has told me that he brought you into the museum today and is insisting that you attend the fund-raiser on his arm. Camille, he is dangerous.”
She arched a brow. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, Hunter, but aren’t you continually attempting to be just as…dangerous?”
Gravely, he shook his head. “My attempts are merely upon your virtue. The Earl of Carlyle is very nearly insane. I fear for your life and health. Apparently, he has fixated upon you, Camille. You entered his world, where he allows very few these days.” He cleared his throat. “Camille, I’d not hurt your feelings for the world. Surely, though, you are aware that we remain a horribly class-conscious society. There’s rumor, of course, that the earl prowls the alleys of London at night, seeking diverse entertainments, since he no longer appears, scarred and mutilated, in the drawing rooms of the gentle misses he might otherwise have sought. I fear that he is truly toying with you in the most cruel and heinous manner.”
That was exactly what the earl was doing, but hardly in the manner that Sir Hunter imagined.
“Please, don’t worry about me,” she told him. “I’m quite able to handle myself.” She offered him a rueful smile. “Surely you’re aware of that. If I’m not mistaken, sir, you have been trying…well, to bring the wonders of the modern world to my doorstep since I came.”
“I’ve not been a wretch, surely!” he protested.
“No, because I am quite capable of handling myself.”
“I know how to settle this in the most courteous manner!” Hunter exclaimed. “We can say that you had already agreed to come with me.”
“Hunter, how very kind,” she told him, setting an arm on his shoulder, because she did believe that he was concerned. “But think of the scandal. In fact, I imagine that I could be in tremendous danger then, for dozens of highborn ladies would be after my throat if they imagined that a woman such as myself was after you!” She was teasing, but there was a grain of truth to her words.
He took both her hands, his eyes intense as they delved into hers. “Camille, really, it would not be a bad thing to let the Earl of Carlyle believe that there was something quite serious between us. And I am a humble ‘sir.’ He is an earl. A different matter altogether.”
“Hunter, is that a proposal?” she teased.
He hesitated. She withdrew her hands.
“Hunter, please believe me. You have been ever kind to me, and I, like all those others, have not been immune. But, Hunter, if I were to engage in a small liaison with you, I would not be just common, but I believe many a common word would be added when my name was spoken.”
“Ah, Camille, the temptation you stir in my heart to cast all else to the wind…”
“Would be foolish,” she told him firmly. “I believe that I will be quite all right. You, of all men, should be aware that I know my class, my position, and that I therefore avoid anything serious with men of greater means.”
He frowned, still intense. “Camille, you know, you do enchant…and more.”
“Hunter, it is the very fact that I am unattainable that enchants you.”
He shook his head. “No, Camille. You are aware, surely, that you have eyes of magic, green and gold, as alluring as those of a tigress. You are, unless you are without sight and reason, aware that you are graced with a form like many a classic statue that charms every man who enters here. You are alive and vital and intelligent. Yes, you could so beguile a man that he would be willing to do anything to acquire your hand.”
She was startled by the passion of his speech. “You’re implying that I believe I could withhold my company from a man such as the earl and gain…marriage?” she said, somewhat incredulous. She had been touched before but was suddenly angry.
“Camille! Please, I speak out of love. My admiration and care for you are deep, indeed.”
She shook her head. “Hunter—”
“Is that it? Do you want marriage? Camille…yes, I would give you a proposal.”
Again shocked, she said, “Hunter, you would hate me. You would deplore the scandal. And say you were really willing to cast sanity to the wind and marry me. In no time, I would no longer be so charming, because I would no longer be unattainable.”
“Camille, you wound me.”
“Hunter, you are worrying where you need not,” she assured him.
“Is that the game you think you could play with Lord Stirling? After all, he is an earl, and even kings have married commoners. But, Camille, you must remember the fate of a certain commoner who married a king.”
“Hunter—”
“History, my dear girl, history! Think of Anne Boleyn. She forced Henry’s hand by being unattainable. And when he was ready to move on, she lost her head!”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Hunter, I swear, I should be deeply, deeply offended. Indeed, if I were a fine young lady, raised to the best finishing schools, I think I should be required to slap you quite hard. But I’m afraid I lost my parents at far too early an age to have attended such a school, and as a mere commoner with an incredible thirst for knowledge, I believe I’m allowed to refrain from violence!”
“You’re laughing at me, and I’m sincere.”
“Oh, Hunter, this is terribly sweet of you. But, no, I’d never marry you—not that you aren’t handsome and charming and so kind to even make such a suggestion.”
“Am I not in the least seductive?” he demanded.
“Far too seductive, and truly kind with your proposal. Which I know you can’t really mean.” When he started to protest, she raised a hand to stop him and continued. “Please, Hunter! I don’t want you to believe that you’ve made an offer, and that, by honor, you can’t renege. Seriously, I do know that you would wind up despising me. And in the same vein the Earl of Carlyle cannot seduce me, because I do have one of those qualities you afforded me—intelligence. I’ll be fine. I’m staying at the castle until I can safely move my guardian. I will attend the fund-raiser because I believe that he feels he can enter such a gathering, masked as he must be due to his scars, quite safely with a museum employee at his side. We will be here, Hunter, right here in the museum, and I will be surrounded by you, Alex and Sir John. And Lord Wimbly, of course, a protector of equal peerage.”
The door opened again before Hunter could reply.
“Camille! I just heard that—” Alex Mittleman began. He stopped abruptly, seeing that she already had company in the small workroom. “Hunter,” he said.
“Alex.”
Alex, a slighter man and appearing more so since his hair was flaxen and his eyes were powder blue, coloring that gave him the appearance more of a handsome youth than of a mature man, flashed a frown in Camille’s direction. The two men usually respected one another, though Alex complained often enough that Hunter was too much a rich dandy and not nearly enough a true scholar. Alex also considered himself a far more appropriate confidant for Camille, since he was more of an honest workingman. Just as she was an honest workingwoman.
Alex cleared his throat, then gave his head a little shake, as if deciding he might as well speak, since Hunter was apparently aware of the subject he meant to bring up. Hunter beat him to it.
“You arrived here this morning with Brian Stirling, the Earl of Carlyle?”
She sighed softly. “Tristan had an accident last night near the earl’s gates. He was taken into the castle because he was injured. As it happens, he was shaken and bruised, yet suffered no worse trauma. Naturally, I went to his side. And so…well, there it is.”
Both men stared at her, then at one another.
“Have you told her that he’s…”
“A dangerous man and perhaps not fully sane,” Hunter finished. “Not so bluntly until this exact minute, but, yes, I’ve tried to get that across.”
“Camille, you really must be very careful around him,” Alex said, still frowning. He looked very worried. “I’m rather shocked to say that Sir John is…well, frankly, pleased!”
“The Earl of Carlyle is a wealthy man,” Hunter said harshly. “His grounds abound with treasures Sir John would love to see in the museum.”
Alex swallowed suddenly. “I will go with you, Camille. I will go with you when the workday is over. We can hire a carriage and get your guardian home safely—”
“Alex, I certainly am better fixed to arrange a carriage, since I do have my own,” Hunter interrupted firmly. “But you are right. We must get Camille and her guardian home quickly and safely, and away from that dreadful castle.”
She watched the two of them, amazed. It wasn’t that they hadn’t shown her kindness or friendship before, but now they were truly vying for her attention. And both seemed most eager to get her away from Carlyle Castle.
Alex lifted his chin slightly, as if willing to be self-sacrificing for her greater good. “Fine. Hunter has his own carriage. However you are rescued from that dastardly place will suffice, as long as you are rescued.”
“Alex, Hunter,” she said softly, but before she could continue, the door burst open again.
Aubrey Sizemore had arrived. He was the last of the division’s main employees, a man who was not quite so knowledgeable, yet, despite his lack of education on the subject, passionate about Egyptology, and he was certainly hardworking and determined. He was a large fellow of perhaps thirtysomething years, bald as a billiard ball and well muscled. He could easily move the heaviest boxes, yet had an incredibly gentle touch when it came to the finer and more delicate parts of excavation.
He stared at Camille as though she were an artifact that had suddenly proven to be the most bizarre find of the century.
“You came here with the Earl of Carlyle?” he demanded.
She sighed, weary of explaining, and said simply, “Yes.”
“So he’s out of the castle again!”
“Yes, so it seems.”
“Well!” he said. “Well, good. We should have a great deal more money pouring in if he has come to acceptance. Indeed! He could plan a new excavation. There is nothing like real work, you know, in the desert sands.”
“He isn’t planning any expeditions as of yet,” Hunter said sharply.
“But…” Aubrey murmured, watching Camille.
“Is there something else you wanted, Aubrey?” Hunter asked.
Aubrey scowled. “That old fellow, the stooped gray-beard we just acquired from Asian Antiquities. Have you seen him?”
They all looked at him blankly. “That fellow. He’s been working for us now a few hours here and there. Arboc, that’s his name! Old Jim Arboc, have you seen him?”
“No, we haven’t seen him,” Hunter said irritably. He didn’t like Aubrey, but Aubrey had all the right assets to work in the department—raw muscle definitely being one of them.
“I’ve told Sir John time and time again that we must have a fellow in full time!” Aubrey said. “I don’t mind the labor, it’s the sweeping up that must be done. It’s time-consuming!”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t waste so much time,” Hunter suggested.
Aubrey almost growled in his direction, but smiled at Camille. “Excellent work, Camille, bringing back such an illustrious patron! Even if he has acquired something of an evil reputation. Perhaps the fellow is cursed.” He winked at her, then went on out.
As he did so, Sir John arrived. “Whatever is going on in here?” he demanded, a rough, impatient note in his voice. “Alex, I believe that Camille is quite capable of working on this relief herself. Hunter, you may be a board member, but your role is not to take up the time of my employees. Lord Wimbly is on his way in, and I will not have my department appearing to be busy with nothing more than an afternoon tea social!”
Alex stiffened. Hunter shrugged laconically. “Camille, we’ll speak later,” he said, and strode toward the door. He opened it, ready to saunter out. But he paused.
Looking back, dark eyes raking quickly over the three of them, then landing on Camille, he said, “It appears that someone else is coming…for tea.”
“Who?” Alex demanded.
“Brian Stirling, the Earl of Carlyle,” Hunter said, his eyes resting on Camille. “We must, indeed, beware, for the monster comes this way!”

CHAPTER FIVE
DESPITE THE HUSH with which the others spoke, Brian could hear their startled and, he mused, somewhat alarmed whispers.
“Lord Stirling?” Sir John said, stunned.
“I thought he’d left.” The frantic comment came from Alex Mittleman.
“Well, he hasn’t. And I’m warning all of you…” That, from Sir John, who didn’t finish the sentence, but came out into the hall, speaking more forcefully and with what sounded like good cheer and welcome. “Brian! We are, indeed, honored! Haven’t seen you in forever, and today…well, we are honored!”
“Please, Sir John, you make me feel quite self-conscious,” he replied, taking the man’s hand.
“So…he never left!” Hunter mused softly, whispering into the ear of Camille Montgomery.
Brian saw her eyes. She was looking wary, thinking the same.
The little workroom where they had all gathered was apparently hers. She stood close to Hunter MacDonald. Alex hovered like a frightened rooster, determined somehow to defend his domain. Even Sir John had taken a stance that was defensive. Yet, Brian thought with a certain humor, he seemed ready—albeit reluctantly—to turn his lovely young ingénue over to Brian if that was what was required to pull him back in. Interesting.
Hunter stepped forward. “Brian, you old devil! We’ve missed you.”
Again, the words were spoken with enthusiasm and apparent good cheer. They’d been in the military together and had known one another well. Indeed, they’d done a bit of pub hopping together. They might even have been called friends. Hunter liked to be thought of as a great world traveler, a tremendous adventurer, and he guarded his reputation as a ladies’ man. He enjoyed women—of all sizes, shapes and social strata.
Was it the natural distrust for a man that might well be a murderer that caused Brian to watch him with so great a distrust now? Or was it the way he stood by Camille? Brian couldn’t help the surge of curiosity that sprang forward in his mind, yet it was goaded by something far more instinctual. He wanted to wrench the woman from the man’s side. Was she aware of Hunter and his reputation, hard earned and well deserved. Were they already lovers?
He’d known her but a night. And his distrust of her remained strong. After all, she had arrived at his house. And she worked at the museum. But was it simple distrust or something else? He had determined on his path. And she was part of it. But as he stood there, watching her, he realized the extraordinary depth of her beauty, the color of her hair, the crystal electricity in her eyes. Indeed, even in her work apron, with strands of hair escaping pins, she exuded a rare grace and dignity, even…sensuality.
He didn’t trust her proximity to Hunter. And worse, he just didn’t…like it.

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