Thus a bargain had been struck. Ellis would live, and Archer would wed the man’s youngest daughter, the fair Miranda. Archer would provide funds for both Ellis and Miranda to live off until the wedding. The first installment of which should already be in the man’s hands. Archer knew he ought to feel guilty for what he’d done. But he couldn’t. He merely had to picture Miranda’s lovely face and her gaze, so direct when he had given her his golden coin in a foolish attempt to… what? Make her stay? Give her hope? He didn’t quite know why he’d given her a coin, only that he would give her the world if he could. But she hadn’t wanted gifts from him. “I don’t take gifts from strangers,” she had said to him. “A trade, however.”
Archer fingered the knife she’d tossed to him, now strapped to his forearm, a sleek Chatellerault with a black enamel hilt. Beautiful, elegant, much like her. His want of her overcame mere guilt.
Amar’s conversation drifted to his ears, pulling him back to the present, where he should be, if he had any sense. The man gave his conspirators a warning not to strike now. They would take Archer unawares when he returned to his room at Shepheard’s. A risky move, for it would anger the English contingent, but brash enough to work. Archer smiled thinly, then urged his horse forward just as the rays of the setting sun burst around the great pyramid.
Chapter 2
London, March 1,1879
Spring was in the air now, a soft caress that made one’s step a little bit lighter, made the men and women of London toss off the tense, huddled stride that winter’s cold crush enforced on them. Which, of course, made it easier for Miranda’s wandering hands to make their way into pockets.
Warmer weather also meant the end of the chilblains and aching joints that plagued her throughout the winter.
Still, it was cool enough for her to keep her coat buttoned up tight and to be thankful for her gloves. The gloves were old, the kid leather worn to a fragile shell at the tips of her fingers. Which was preferable really, as one needed to rely on touch when picking pockets.
Briskly, Miranda walked down the street, giving a nod to the bootblack boys who’d claimed their spot, and to Bob, the milkman, who drove his cow slowly along. Miranda always purchased from him, preferring to buy from the source rather than risk bottled milk, which often contained more chalk-water than actual milk.
With her stomach growling, she stopped at Alice’s coffee cart.
“Just the coffee today, Alice,” she said, making a point of not looking at the golden muffins displayed in a front basket. Her stomach protested vocally as Alice washed out a ceramic cup and filled it with dark, hot coffee.
“You ought to get work in a shop,” Alice said without preamble.
Miranda sipped her coffee and gazed at the street life teaming around them. Plenty of nabobs walked along, angling for a stroll in the park as it was Saturday and the weather was fine. But it was too open. She’d move onto Piccadilly or perhaps Tottenham Court Road.
“Father doesn’t approve,” was all she chose to offer.
“Course not.” Alice sneered. It wasn’t directed at Miranda. For all Alice knew, Miranda idled the days away while she and her father sank further into poverty. No one knew of Miranda’s other life. No one save Father, and though he sent her out on the streets, for some odd reason he had wanted to keep her as cloistered from the rest of the world as possible, as though he were saving her for some grand scheme.
A muffin was plunked down in front of her. “You’re wasting away before me eyes, girl.”
Miranda looked up at Alice at last. “I can’t. I haven’t the money.” It all went to Father. She couldn’t fault him for taking it, not after what she’d done. She stifled a familiar shudder.
The older woman snorted, the action lifting a lock of steel-colored hair from her worn brow. “Take it, and pay me at week’s end. Surely yer father will give you some blunt then.”
Miranda’s fingers curled around the heated mug to keep from reaching. “I’m saving what I can. For a dress,” she added without thinking. She should be saving for practical things, yet she needed this one luxury. She didn’t understand the compulsion, but it was strong. Just one thing of beauty for herself. Just once.
Alice’s eyes lit up. “Oh-ho? A wedding dress, perhaps? Your beau finally come up to snuff, has he?”
How irritating that at the age of twenty, Miranda could still be subject to blushes. Alice laughed and edged the muffin closer. “I’m thinking Hector doesn’t know.”
“No. I’ll not tell him until…” Truth be told, she’d rather not tell her father until she walked out the door. She did not want to hear how she ruined his life, lost his fortune. Miranda took a bracing sip of coffee before speaking. “If you wouldn’t mind…” Miranda shouldn’t have opened her mouth. The thought of her father finding out about her engagement made her ill.
“Say no more.” A toothy smile, gray and shiny, flashed. “Now, take the muffin, will you? Consider it a present.”
“A present, you say?” came a lighthearted masculine voice. A warm hand snaked around Miranda’s waist and gave a squeeze, while another hand reached over her shoulder and caught up the muffin.
Miranda smiled as she turned in time to see Martin Evans take a bite out of her muffin.
“A present for me.” She took back her muffin. “Get your own.”
His grin was wide as he chewed. “From what I heard, it was an engagement present, which would imply that the gift was for both the intended bride and the groom.”
“Very logical deduction.” She ate the rest of the muffin before he could take it back. In some ways, Martin still treated her like the girl he had played pirates with before her mistake had nearly gotten them killed and ruined everything.
In other ways, well, she wouldn’t think about those other ways in front of Alice the coffeemonger.
Martin’s golden-brown eyes twinkled. “Come along then,” he tossed Alice a copper, “let me take my best girl for a walk.”
Miranda thanked Alice, then took his proffered arm. “Lud, you make me sound like a dog.”
“A very beautiful dog,” he said solemnly before chuckling. His gold curls moved when he laughed as if the whole of him were caught up in the act.
Happiness and light filled her heart when walking along with him. She had pockets to fleece, a dress to make a down payment on, and a supper to scour up for her father, but this little bit of joy would be hers first.
“Haven’t you a job to do?” she teased.
Martin had acquired a coveted position as a clerk at one of the shipping companies that operated out of the vast warehouses, much like the one her father had once owned.
“My supervisor gave me the first Saturday of every month off as a bonus for my diligence.”
He did not know of her job, if one could call thievery a job. Martin’s father had been one of her father’s major investors. Martin’s family had lost everything as well that night, but he had never blamed her. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to face his disappointment. They had all fallen from grace, but she couldn’t let him see how far she’d gone.
“Now, no more questions.” He tweaked her nose, and his eyes went smoky topaz. “We’ve only got the hour.”
Heat washed over her cheeks and down her neck. She knew she’d soon find herself in the far reaches of Hyde Park, nestled under the thick shrubs as Martin whispered love words in her ear. Someday, she thought as he hurried her toward the park, there would be a bed. Someday they would be able to slow down and really enjoy lovemaking.
Someday soon they would be married, and it wouldn’t be furtive fumbling in clandestine places. She looked forward to that day. Perhaps then she wouldn’t be plagued with dreams of a strange man she’d only met once.
Egypt, March 1,1879
As thieves went, Basim was not particularly large or menacing. In fact, he had the open, pleasing expression of a Byzantine saint. Even his eyes held little guile. A nice trick, Archer mused, and one that had most likely led many a man to his death. Those large brown eyes were on Archer now, holding an expression of open friendship as he recounted what he knew of Daoud’s death. Indeed, those eyes were at present trying to lull Archer into believing the man only wanted to help Archer, that he had no real hand in foul play this time.
Archer knew better.
“What did you find upon the body?” he asked.
Basim’s expression did not change. “A billfold, a hundred pounds English currency within. Gold pocket watch, English made.” His nose wrinkled a bit as if to project his disapproval of a Muslim man dressing up in English kit.
Daoud had been half-Egyptian, half-English. It was a life always lived on the outskirts, and one Daoud had struggled to find his place in. Sadness clenched Archer’s chest for a moment. His friend had finally seemed content with his lot in life, only to be murdered soon after.
“Go on,” he said.
Basim blinked up at him. “Go on, effendi? But that is all.”
The corners of his eyes tightened a fraction. It was all Archer needed to see.
Archer leaned in, using his considerable height and bulk to intimidate. “Before, I might have played this game with you. But I am tired, and I will have my answers now.” At his confession, the thieves surrounding him perked up, as if his stating a weakness would give them an advantage. He laughed, low and deep.
Basim’s spine straightened at the sound. Behind him,
Amar’s eyes narrowed.
“You have no idea with what you play.” Archer’s hand moved up to the kafiyah wound around his head. He let the cloth slip to reveal his face.
All the color leached out of the men’s faces. Archer lashed out, grabbing Basim by the collar of his gallibaya and yanking him close.
“Ifrit, ifrit,” babbled Basim in helpless horror as his cohorts ran off screaming.
Archer grinned. “Call me that, if it pleases you.” He didn’t mind being thought of as a demon. It wasn’t far from the truth. “But you will tell me all. I know it was you, Basim Awad, who killed my man. “Who was it that sent you to do this deed? Tell me. Or shall I tear out your heart and show you its color?” Basim convulsed. “Shall I eat your soul for my dinner?” Even as Archer said the words, he turned ice cold, his insides quaking, for part of him whispered that he should. Archer gave Basim a brutal shake, the rage and helplessness building inside him until he feared he might tear the man’s head off.
Basim gagged before he found his voice. “I do not know who, effendi. Only that he was English. He stayed in shadows and paid us well. Gold coin. Strange coins.”
Archer’s teeth ground. “What coins?” But he knew the answer, and the pit of his stomach grew heavy.
“Coins with the face of the moon upon them,” Basim said in a rush.
Archer’s will deflated. He tossed the man away, turning his back on him as the thief scrambled off into the night.
West Moon Club. It always went back to that, didn’t it? Try as he might to forget the mistakes he had made there, someone wouldn’t let him.
Yes, Egypt had been a colossal waste of time. Now what?
London, March 1,1879
Twigs dug into her back, a leaf scratched at her cheek, and the queer clenching feeling within her belly slipped away. It was a feeling that always came when she and Martin were together yet it never seemed to quite rise to the height she wanted. Something within her whispered that one day that feeling would overwhelm her, and she would shatter from the force of it. And love every moment.
Martin eased off her and rolled onto his back with a satisfied sigh.
Putting himself to rights, Martin watched her with a soft smile. “I cannot wait until we are married.”
They had only just started doing this. For the longest time, they were merely friends. Then one Sunday, not so long ago, while walking along in Hyde Park, Martin had pulled her close and kissed her. It had stunned Miranda. Indeed, for one awful moment, it had felt wrong, as though she were kissing her brother, but his lips moved over hers, insistent and needy, and it became lovely and sweet.
Kissing grew into something of an obsession with Martin, and he sought to do so often. But on the night he’d asked her to marry him, they’d gone beyond kissing. After all, he’d murmured as he inched up her skirts, they’d be together always. It had hurt that first time and felt awkward, not at all something she wanted to repeat, but the act had gotten better. Now she was as eager as he to see how good it could get.
Miranda turned on her side and touched one of the curls at his temple. “It would be nice to do this in a bed, and without clothing.”
Martin grinned, his blond brows wiggling. “Mmm… What do you imagine occupies my thoughts every night?”
They laughed together, but Miranda’s laughter felt forced. She would not think about— who—occupied her nightly thoughts. It felt like a betrayal.
“I’m serious, Martin.” She ran her fingers through his curls again. “I cannot wait until we are together as man and wife. You are my truest, dearest friend. You are like home to me. And… well, I want to make you a home you’ll be proud of.” To hold her head up high, to know with absolute certainty what her place was within world, could there be anything better?
“Of course I’ll be proud.” Martin kissed her cheek. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured. The rough tips of his fingers traced the spot he kissed as though he’d laid claim there.
“Like a china doll.” He kissed her mouth, then sighed. “I’m going to make something of myself, Pan. Then I’ll buy you lovely dresses and show you off to the whole world.”