Page 19 of To Catch an Earl

For a brief moment they stared at each other, and Emmy held her breath, hoping they would finally give in to their obvious mutual attraction and kiss properly, but Sally pulled back with a flustered laugh and the moment was broken.

Luc turned back to Emmy, all business. “Right. Let’s go. You should arrive just before closing time. Franks won’t have time to look at you, much as he would like to. He won’t want to be late to meet Sally.”

He winced and Emmy bit her lip to stop a smile. The thought of sending Sally out to flirt with another man while looking so delectable was clearly torture for him.

Sally had worked her magic on him too. Instead of an attractive thirty-year-old, she’d made him look much older, with greying hair, a bushy fake mustache, and grizzled sideburns. A wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his forehead disguised the top part of his face, and a lumpy greatcoat hid his athletic form.

“You’ll be placed in the store room or the dust room,” Luc said. “It’s closest to the back door. As soon as you’re sure Franks has locked up, push off the lid and get to work. The keys to the cabinet will be hanging on a hook in his office.”

Camille tucked a small brown paper-wrapped package down near her feet. “Don’t forget Brutus.” She leaned forward and gave Emmy a hug. “Bonne chance, ma chère. Ihave every faith in your skill, of course, but a little extra luck never hurt anyone. Now off you go.”

A flat-backed delivery cart was waiting outside, a raggedy urchin holding the horse’s bridle. Emmy and Sally placed the sarcophagus inside the wooden packing crate they’d prepared, and Emmy climbed back in, leaving the top half-off so she could breathe. Sally packed the rest of the crate with straw, then threw a woolen blanket over the whole thing to disguise it. The springs rocked as Luc climbed onto the front seat and took the reins.

“Let’s go.”

Emmy braced herself as the cart lumbered out into the street and rattled over the cobbles. It was only a ten-minute ride from Waverton Street to Bloomsbury, but she felt every bruising jolt and teeth-rattling bump. She was going to be a mass of bruises by tomorrow.

It was uncomfortably warm beneath the blanket, and dark. The sounds of London were muffled, almost dreamlike, and her mind began to wander. What kind of life was this? Other women were getting ready for a walk in Hyde Park, or preparing for an evening of entertainment. They were out there enjoying themselves, flirting, trying to find a partner. How on earth was she ever going to meet someone when all she did was sneak around mostly abandoned buildings? The only single men she was likely to encounter in her near future were police constables and jailors.

Or Bow Street Runners.

She banished the thought.

Frustration bubbled within her. She wasn’t just trapped in this stupid crate, she was trapped in this stupidlife—bound by her father’s legacy and by Danton’s greedy demands. The only way out of it was to see the blasted thing through to the end. This sarcophagus could serve as a fitting metaphor for her life; the painted facade onthe outside bore no resemblance to the person beneath, just as the image she presented to thetonwas nothing like reality.

Was it too much to wish for a normal, relatively uneventful life? A life with a home and a husband and, God willing, children? She couldn’t see it happening. Marriages should be based on trust. She would rather die an old maid than enter into a lifelong union with untruths between herself and her husband. How could she marry a man if he knew only the lies she’d told him? And what man would marry her if he knew the truth? Her dream to find a man who knew every one of her flaws, all her past misdemeanors, and who loved her anyway, was impossible.

A corner away from Russell Street Luc pulled the carriage to a halt, turned in his seat, and flicked aside the blanket. Emmy blinked in the sudden onslaught of daylight.

“Time to put the lid on,” he said cheerfully.

He slid the sarcophagus closed, and Emmy heard him push the top of the wooden crate into place overhead. She tried to regulate her breathing as he pulled up at the back entrance to the museum and went to summon the curator.

Her heart sounded unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. She forced herself to think of wide, open spaces, long fields of wheat rippling to the horizon.

“I was not expecting any sort of delivery.” Franks’s confusion was evident in his brusque tone. “Where did you say this had come from?”

Luc, who could emulate Sally’s East End accent perfectly, pulled out a sheaf of crumpled papers from his greatcoat; Emmy heard them rustle. “I told yer, guvn’r. Blackwall docks. Ship called theZenobiajust come from Alexandria. Captain ordered me to bring this ’ere box straight to a Mister Franks at the British Museum.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of a bequest from a lord—who did you say it was?”

“Lord Burlington, sir. Least, that’s wot this ’ere paper says. Been working with a chap called Belzoni out there in Egypt, diggin’ up all kinds o’ moldy stuff.”

“How odd. Do you know what it is?”

Luc sniffed. “A ’gyptian sarco—scarc-uh—a coffin, sir.”

Emmy could practically hear Franks’s curiosity get the better of him. Luc’s casual mention of the infamous archaeologist Giovanni Belzoni was a stroke of genius. Franks would be intrigued.

She gave a mental shake of the head at his gullibility. Honestly, hadn’t the man ever read about the Trojan horse? The classics were full of pithy warnings like “beware of messengers bearing gifts.” Luc’s Lord Burlington was entirely fictitious; a glance at Debrett’s last night had confirmed the title had died out with the last earl ten years ago.

But people were always impressed with aristocratic titles. Emmy wrinkled her nose. Just look at Harland, he was a prime example. He might be the Earl of Melton, but a fancy title didn’t change his core nature—that of irritatingly handsome cynic.

Franks, however, clearly subscribed to the maxim: Never look a gift horse in the mouth. “A sarcophagus, you say. How marvelous. Well, you’d better bring it in, then.”

“Can’t ’elp you there, guv’,” Luc said with cheerful regret. “Me back’s gone, see? Can’t lift anyfink ’eavier than a tankard o’ beer. That’s why I drives a cart, see?”

Franks sighed. “Oh, very well. You there, lad.” He was obviously calling to one of the many urchins loitering in the street. “Give me a hand with this crate.”

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