Page 7 of A Little Bit Dangerous
“When did you last eat?” Mr Chance stared at her, not the delicate figurine in his hands. “Don’t lie to me. I know the look of the famished.”
“Two days ago.” She offered an explanation before he demanded one. “I need what little money I have for lodgings. A woman alone won’t last the night on the streets.” And she had no friends in London.
“You don’t need to educate me on the dangers. But you have a home in Hill Street. Why the devil would you need lodgings?”
Isabella swallowed a piece of bread. “When my father sent me to the seminary, he told Miss Blunkett not to send me back. When I reached eighteen, she was to find me a husband. In short, my father doesn’t want me. Should he return, he’ll throw me out. Now do you understand why food is an afterthought?”
Mr Chance cursed under his breath. “Surely his servants are not so callous as to refuse you a meal.” He placed the figurine on the trolley, removed the gloves and crossed the room. “Have they mentioned when he might return?”
She watched the man pour a small glass of wine from the flagon. He handed it to her and waited until she had downed the contents before prompting her to continue.
“There are no servants.” She had spent weeks alone in a cold, empty house, everything shrouded in white sheets. It was like living amongst ghosts. “I had to break a windowpane in the basement door to gain entrance.”
Mr Chance rubbed his sculpted jaw. “I know Lawton left London for a time but was seen again last month. To my knowledge, he owns no other properties in town.”
“He must be abroad. His armoire is empty.” She bit into the apple, the loud crunch accompanying her satisfied hum.
“You can’t go on like this,” Mr Chance snapped.
“That’s why I’m being paid to examine the artefacts.” A chance meeting with Mr Daventry at the servants’ registry changed everything. “Mr Daventry is aware of my unfortunate situation and wishes to help.”
“Does he?”
She knew that tone: cynical, suspicious. “Oh, it is not what you think. Mr Daventry is devoted to his wife. His offer of help is merely a benevolent gesture.”
“Everyone knows how Daventry feels about his wife. That’s not the issue. Knowing of my history with your father, I can’t help but wonder why he asked for my assistance.”
“Perhaps because you have a knowledge of Egyptian artefacts.”
He turned to look at the stone tablet, and she stole a glance at his impressive physique. Her mother’s Italian lover smelled of wine and sweat. Mr Chance smelled of amber and leather. A masculine scent. Memorable. Much like the man.
Seeking a distraction, Isabella wiped her hands on a napkin. “We should begin examining the pieces. I’ve wasted too much time already.”
Mr Chance agreed.
They wore the gloves Mr Brown supplied and sat on opposite sides of the desk to study the ushabti. Mr Chance placed the figure carefully on the smooth surface, positioning the candle lamps to gain an optimum view.
Isabella took paper and a pencil from the drawer, ready to make notes. “I’ll not risk an ink spillage,” she said, jotting down the key points. “The material is undoubtedly porous. First, we should determine if the piece is hollow.”
“It’s solid. The only way to know for sure is to hit it with a hammer, though I don’t think Mr Brown would approve.”
She laughed, their gazes locking across the desk. Heavens! She had never seen eyes so blue. “I’ll tick solid. Do you agree it’s Egyptian faience?”
“It appears so, but without breaking it in two, we cannot confirm that with any accuracy.” He pointed to the symbols carved on the figurine’s body. “Based on what we’ve learnt since Champollion deciphered the Rosetta Stone, the hieroglyphic markings here look genuine. I’ll bring my notes tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Curiosity burning, Isabella dared to look him in the eye. Would he not find every reason to stay away? “Why return to the museum when I sense you’re here under duress?”
“Daventry made me swear an oath to complete the task.” He scoffed, the sound carrying the contempt of a man tricked by a knave.
“He wasn’t completely honest with you. Is that not grounds to renege?”
Though his blue eyes hardened, they still shone like Murano glass. “When a man’s had his dignity stolen, he has to work hard to gain respect. I’d no more break my word than I would sever my right arm.”
Isabella fought to stop her chin hitting the floor. In her experience, men fell into two categories—sly scoundrels and brutal beasts. Mr Daventry excepted, she had never met one with morals.
He’s not the boy you remember, she reminded herself. She knew not to make presumptions based on words and a handsome countenance.
“My reasons for returning tomorrow are less virtuous,” she said, turning her attention back to the ushabti to prevent Mr Chance seeing the utter desperation in her gaze. “I need money, and a lady has limited ways of gaining funds.”
