The Lord's Inconvenient Vow

Her heart hiccoughed and she laughed.

‘I said I am proud of your work. I’m dreadfully embarrassed about mine. What a hypocrite I am.’

‘So you are. You are lucky you are adorable. And talented.’

‘But we needn’t say anything about me. After all, no one knows...’

‘True, but the fact remains that though you keep referring to them as my books, they are our creation. I refuse to stand there taking either all the credit or the blame. We shall face our fate together.’

Sam nodded, her throat too tight for words.

* * *

In the end it was so much easier than they anticipated. The moment Edge gave his name at the door Mr John Soane, a grey-haired man with a long face and dark, sleepy eyes, strode forward with evident pleasure as if there was nothing at all irregular in appearing uninvited at his soirée.

This was no small intimate evening and no regular town house. At least two dozen people were milling about a series of connecting rooms, talking, admiring and basking in the hundreds and hundreds of artefacts and works of art and architectural oddities that made this much more museum than home. Most congregated in a domed room which stood at a crossroads between entrance, drawing rooms and exhibition rooms. It was called the breakfast room, but had nothing to do with breakfast as far as Sam could see.

She saw and knew Edge did, too, the moment his name registered with the guests Mr Soane introduced them to—the shift from politeness to dazed realisation and then avid interest. At least on the surface Edge remained far calmer than she did once he introduced her and her role in the books. At first she turned as red as the wall hangings and mute as a landed fish, but then she realised she’d been right—even these stuffy scholars loved Edge’s books.

Her own discomfort eased as she watched accredited scholars try to remain stoic while expressing their enjoyment of the books. Soon Edge was deep in a discussion with a group of antiquarians about his use of local mythologies and the interweaving of the new scholarship on Egyptian history and language. The more detailed the discussion became, the more Edge appeared to relax and once he even smiled at a comment by a distinguished-looking woman with greying hair and kind brown eyes comparing his High Priest Jephteh with Imhotep.

Half Sam’s pleasure was watching Edge in his element. Here, surrounded by intelligent discussion and men and women who valued the same things he did, she remembered how he had been back in Egypt. Bab el-Nur and the Carmichaels’ home in Cairo were often full of visiting antiquarians and scholars and she’d always envied Edge the ease with which people gravitated to him, despite or perhaps because of his reserve.

They would listen to him and wait upon his opinions and simply shine when he showed any sign of approbation. She thought it was because there was nothing feigned about his generosity—Edge always managed to pinpoint that achievement or characteristic which made a person stand out from the crowd.

She’d been convinced he’d done that for everyone but her, but of course she’d been wrong—he’d been protective but always appreciative of her drawing skills and he’d never belittled her intelligence. She’d wanted more, but that had been wholly her fault.

She still wanted more. She wanted Edge to trust her, to want to share himself with her. To care for her. Far more than care...

It was too soon and too complicated to expect anything more from him. She would have to watch herself and her greediness. Step by step. First—help him find Rafe. Then, perhaps a house. A life in common...

She watched as he lowered his head towards the woman, still smiling as he listened. He could be so attentive when he wished, make you feel utterly visible. Utterly real. If they found a trace of Rafe here or not she was so glad they came. She wanted more of this for him—friends with shared interests, Edge relaxed and smiling and alive. Even if she could not give him everything he needed herself, she wanted to see him like this with others.

Mr Soane leaned towards her suddenly.

‘Come, Lady Edward. There is something here I think a talented illustrator like yourself will appreciate. Do you mind if I steal your wife for a moment, Lord Edward?’

Edge’s gaze caught hers, shifting immediately from his interest in the conversation to the protective awareness she’d never valued in the past. She smiled at him and followed Mr Soane into the exhibition rooms. She had barely time to absorb the dizzying abundance of artefacts on walls and stands when they entered a smaller room at the end which was filled floor to ceiling with prints and paintings. Her mouth fell open as Mr Soane unlatched a fastening on the wall to reveal a cupboard that opened like pages of a book, each one covered with dozens of framed prints.