Hatshepsut's Collar (The Artifact Hunters #2)

"All the fun of the first one, but in a different package... (I need more Nate and Cara asap!)"
~
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1. Start Reading
   
2. The Quarry
   , by A.W. Exley
   
3. About the Author
   
4. Copyright & Publisher
   
5. More Books from Curiosity Quills Press
   
6. Full Table of Contents
   

To Lyndsay; for your support and encouragement, the photo of Rob in the brown suit, entertaining the kids and keeping the Marlborough white flowing.

id-September, 1861.

For the first time in three weeks, the gossip columns remained silent on the subject of
“Miss Cara Devon, frequent visitor to a nefarious Mayfair address.”

Her stroll through the smoking room of Red’s, sans skirts, sparked a furore across Europe and divided opinion. Gentlemen’s clubs scrambled to either erect specific “no women” signs, or took them down; secretly hoping another fine form would be game enough to do a Cara Devon.

Tossing the paper into the trash, Cara dug her toes into the expensive Persian carpet under her desk, using the lush pile to work her digits back and forth. A stretch ran over the sole of her foot and into her arch and she gave a sigh of relief. The one drawback to her nocturnal activities with Nate, he made her toes curl so hard that by morning she had to work the cramp out of her feet.

More than three months had passed since she came to London to finalise her father’s estate. She planned to stay a few days, a week at the most, and then resume her nomadic lifestyle. Then she tangled with Viscount Nathaniel Lyons and everything changed.

She took a deep drink from her fresh brewed coffee as the aethergram on the desk rattled into life. The machine spat out a steady stream of thin ticker tape, and it coiled into the wicker basket beneath. She cast a glance at the message, the cargo manifesto for the incoming airship, returning to England after a long voyage in the Orient. She was coming to grips with her new role within the Lyons Airship company, where nothing was ever as simple as it appeared on the surface. The containers described as “Aunt Jemima’s ikebana supplies” were code for Japanese contraband, usually pornographic prints, sometimes beautiful katanas, and last week, an exquisite Geisha.

Cara was horrified, until she learned the girl was there of her own free will. She bought her freedom from a secluded life by selling herself to the highest English bidder for one year. Unhappy with the arrangement, Cara interrogated the hapless gentleman until she was satisfied he would treat the gentle courtesan with respect for the duration of the engagement. He appeared genuinely delighted with his acquisition and Cara extracted a promise from the woman to stay in touch, so she could keep an eye on the situation. She would play no part in the trafficking of women and made her opinion clear.

Opening a drawer, she took out a clean sheet of paper and grabbed the end of the ticker tape to write up the incoming manifesto needed to satisfy the Customs officials. The paperwork a mere courtesy; Nate’s influence so pervasive they very rarely examined the containers, and only opened the ones he pointed out.

The door cracked open and Miguel, the youngest of Nate’s employees, poked his head around. “Any plans for this morning?” he asked. With his auburn hair and hazel eyes, he looked like her younger brother, if she had any siblings.

“Yes.” She looked up from her paperwork. “I need to take this manifesto down to the hangar. Could you saddle a horse, please? A real one,” she added, in case he decided to be mischievous and throw a saddle on a mechanical equine instead. Miguel was her constant shadow. She gave him the slip six weeks earlier and ended up strapped to a deranged serial killer’s table. The youth blamed himself, despite Cara pointing out she was the one responsible for her predicament.

His quiet spoken manner and unwavering loyalty to Nate piqued Cara’s curiosity, and they settled on an arrangement. She promised to allow him to accompany her for a month and he would tell her how he ended up in Nate’s debt and employ. With only a few days to go until he had to confess all, her curiosity started a countdown in her head.

Voices came and went in the entrance, the front door banging shut on some unknown visitor, as she finished her work. She grabbed her boots and laced the soft, brown leather over her shins. Scooping up the battered leather satchel, she shoved the paperwork inside and buckled up the flap. She slung the strap over her head and nestled it across her chest, pausing to pass her fingertips over the sensitive patch of skin next to her breast. Six weeks ago, Weaver Clayton tried to cut her heart out. Within mere days, the wound had healed to a faint pink scar, thanks to the link she shared with Nate through the ancient artifact, Nefertiti’s Heart. Not that either of them understood the bond forged between them that day in the cellar, except she could draw on his strength to heal faster. He could also track her whereabouts using the echo of her heart beat through his body, which made running away pointless.

Her boot heels clicked on the grey marble of the floor and she glanced at the ornate clock hanging opposite the main door. Its face was two feet wide, delicate filigree hands and dials showed the date, time, temperature and phases of the moon. A beautiful enamelled pair of peacocks sat on either side, tail feathers of rich blues and greens draping over the side. The masterpiece told her it was 10:30 a.m., a week away from the autumn equinox, and a mild 15 degrees Celsius outside.

The bodyguard manning the door pulled open the heavy panelled barrier to the outside world and in his other hand, held out a grey wool coat. She gave him a nod of thanks as she grabbed the garment and bounced down the wide stairs. Miguel waited in the paved driveway of the Mayfair mansion, a pair of matched bay geldings standing patiently beside him.

Cara shrugged on the jacket, over the top of her satchel, and pulled the collar up on the coat, when the deep frown in Miguel’s face arrested her attention.

“What’s wrong?”

He shoved a piece of paper into her hand. “These were just delivered to most of the men in the house.”

Cara took the note and read over the few lines contained; it was a conscription notice. The named individual, ordered to report to a newly established training ground on the outskirts of London. If he failed to appear within five days, he faced either prison or the firing squad.

“Oh hell.” If the notices were rolling out across London it meant only one thing―Victoria was raising an army from the youth of England. A shiver ran down Cara’s spine as she wondered what fuelled the sudden recruitment drive. She reached out to squeeze Miguel’s arm. “She’ll not have you. I’ll talk to Nate and see if he has somewhere we can move you with the other young men, until we see what is happening.”

The open smile returned to his young face, such was his belief in his master’s ability to sort the matter.

Cara placed one foot in the stirrup, swung into the saddle, and flicked the tails of her coat over the flank of the horse. Miguel passed up the reins before jumping on his horse. They headed toward the road at a slow walk on a loose rein. The sounds of voices and traffic wafted past the protective oak trees and down the drive, becoming louder as they rounded the corner and headed out the wrought iron gate into Wood Mews.

A woman in an understated lilac walking gown, with a matching tasselled parasol over her shoulder, raised a hand at the sight of Cara, waving her closer. She gave a sigh and nudged the gelding near the pavement and greeted Nate’s neighbour, Sara Collins. “Lady Collins.”

“Miss Devon. I am still waiting for you to retrieve my item.” She stood close to the horse’s neck so they wouldn’t be overheard. The gelding sniffed at the parasol and snorted when a tassel tickled his nose.

Cara had become the go-to person for noble women with seedy problems they didn’t want exposed to all of society. Only now did she remember her promise to Sara Collins, who had lost her engagement ring as a forfeit to a character called the Trickster. “Forgive me, no, the matter completely slipped my mind. I didn’t want to be reminded of Weaver Clayton trying to carve my heart out, so shoved that day to the back of my thoughts.” She tapped a finger to her breast.

The other woman raised a dark eyebrow while her face remained impassive, an action reminisce of something Nate would do. “You appear fully recovered, and the matter is becoming most urgent. Questions are being asked of me and I can no longer avoid them.”

Curiosity gnawed its way to the forefront of Cara’s attention. “You know the person who holds the item and you’ve been to his domain before, why haven’t you retrieved it for yourself?”

A chill wave flowed off the noble woman; Cara had overstepped a mark. “I was foolish once, I’ll not make the same mistake twice. I may be seen or recognised if I venture there again. You will be handsomely rewarded. Please have the task accomplished by the end of the week.”

Cara stiffened in the saddle. Being an impoverished noble, she needed to find an income. She hated being reliant on Nate, even if she earned her keep untangling his paperwork. “Very well, I’ll have it done in the next few days.”

Lady Collins nodded, spun on her heel and with parasol over her shoulder, continued down the street.