Page 26 of A Little Bit Dangerous
Isabella persevered. “Never mind. I shall return with my patron Lord Oldman. I believe his funding helps to pay your wages.” She uttered a silent prayer, hoping the blackguard wasn’t on friendly terms with the peer.
“Lord Oldman?” Failing to suppress his frustration, Mr Purton mumbled to himself before conceding. “I suppose I can spare half an hour. Follow me. I’ll show you to the exhibit. You’ll go nowhere else, mind.”
He didn’t wait for her or hold the doors open.
She scuttled behind and raced up the vast marble staircase to keep his fast pace. “You’ll find everything you need here.” He left her standing beside the Rosetta Stone, a captivating attraction in its own right, and moved to walk away.
“Sir, might I ask how much you paid for your recent purchases? It would give our members an idea of how precious the most basic objects are.”
Mr Purton came to an abrupt halt. “I don’t know offhand, but I secured them for a reasonable price. Lord Oldman funds trips to the Orient and keeps some pieces. Best you ask him.” And with that, he left her alone on the upper floor while he went about his business.
After taking a moment to appreciate the colossal bust of Rameses II, Isabella made quick sketches of papyri and a few antiquities in case Mr Purton demanded to see them.
She had left the Egyptian Gallery and was about to descend the stairs when she saw the horrid fellow greeting two gentlemen in the hall. In itself, it was nothing unusual. But like felons planning their next robbery, their shifty gazes said something was amiss.
Isabella approached the attendant, who was busy polishing the oak bannister. “I have business with Mr Purton but don’t want to disturb him if he’s with important gentlemen.”
The attendant’s nose wrinkled as he glanced at the men in the hall. “Mr Purton doesn’t take kindly to interruptions when he’s with his friends from the Society of Antiquaries.”
The Society of Antiquaries?
Isabella suppressed a gasp. How strange they should visit when Mr Brown was out of town. “Ah, it’s Mr Clarke and Mr Woodrow.” It was a wild guess, but their names were recorded onThe Marigold’s passenger list. “They were on the recent expedition to the Orient.”
The attendant nodded. “Mr Purton likes to keep abreast of new discoveries. The men often bring goods for sale. They sometimes meet in the private room at the Horse and Groom tavern.”
He saidgoods, not historical artefacts. Was Mr Purton conspiring to sell something other than antiquities? And only devious men met in taverns.
“I imagine they find many trinkets on digs, ones that might interest a collector.” Isabella caught herself. In an effort to establish if a crime had been committed, her imagination ran riot. But Mr Daventry thought the matter was worth pursuing, and a penniless lady didn’t argue.
She thanked the attendant and waited until Mr Purton escorted his friends to his office before quickly descending the stairs.
Mr Gibbs would curse her tardiness if she dallied a moment longer, and so she kept the exit in her sights. For the past few days, she had been knocking on doors along Great Russell Street, looking for the ghostly woman in white. Sadly, there was no time to pursue her enquiries today.
She hurried through the vestibule and spotted Mr Gibbs atop his box, glaring beneath heavy brows. She raised her hand by way of an apology and crashed into a man about to enter the museum.
Her notebook and drawings tumbled to the ground, but the fellow did not offer an apology or crouch to gather her things.
No! He gripped her firmly by the upper arms, shook her and snapped, “Watch where you’re going. You stepped on my new boots.”
Isabella glanced up only to meet the cold, dark eyes of a man she knew. He was much older than she remembered, grey peppering his wavy brown locks, the creases around his eyes deeper now. Still, one never forgot the face of the devil.
Father!
Her heart missed a beat.
Her whole body shook violently.
“Forgive me, sir.” She averted her gaze, pretended she didn’t know him as she tugged her arms free. “The fault is mine.” She needed to collect her drawings and make a dash for the carriage, but he uttered a word that filled her with dread.
“Isabella?”
No! No! No!
“You mistake me for someone else, sir.”
“I think I know my own damn daughter. The conte wrote to me and told me your mother was dead. That you’d packed a valise and fled.”
Panic choked her throat.
