Chapter 5 #2
The book slammed shut. “Fine.” The lassie stood in a huff, scooping up the plate heaving with cakes, and stomped to the other side of the room.
Kenneth might have objected to the loss of the cakes, except Mrs. Whinge bustled in then with another tray.
In the commotion of getting those cakes settled and more tea poured, he managed to shift even closer to Barbara.
She sat, teacup half-raised, a politely interested smile frozen on her face until the housekeeper bustled out again and Annabelle was settled across the room…
Then the teacup and saucer slammed down onto the table, and she scrambled for a notebook and pencil she’d apparently tucked into the cushions of the chaise at her side.
“I figured something out,” she announced without preamble, turning to him with the notebook on her lap and an eager grin as she flipped through the pages. “Last night, when you said you believed in me to figure out the patina problem—”
“And I do, lass,” Kenneth told her honestly as he placed his tea down as well, knowing this was more important than cakes. Probably. He snagged one for emergencies. “What did you determine?”
The cake was lemon, and one of his brows twitched as he decided that perhaps it was equally as important as whatever she’d learned. He stuffed the remainder into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully as Barbara found the right page and pointed to a series of notes she’d underlined.
As she met his eyes, there was genuine excitement in her gaze.
“You were the one who pointed out Cousin Errol’s canopic jars and Mr. Nutt’s jars both belonged to women.
That is rare, because even though princesses and priestesses were important to ancient Egyptian society, they were less important than princes and priests.
” She waited for him to nod in understanding, then continued.
“I went through my notes and my memories of salons and exhibitions of the last few years, and I came up with a list.”
Kenneth swallowed the remainder of the cake, even while reaching for another. Tea cakes were necessary for scheming, everyone knew. It was why the British had such a large empire. “A list of collections with canopic jars which belonged to women?”
She nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling. “I knew you would understand. The British Museum collection, of course, is extensive, thanks to the surrender by the French of the Rosetta Stone, but I do not recall any canopic jars belong to women.”
“If we are to find a pattern,” Kenneth remarked through a mouthful of cake, “we will have to visit.”
“Yes, but first.” She jabbed her finger at a name. “The Pratt collection. The Pratt collection has a full set of canopic jars from a princess of the Twenty-First Dynasty.”
Thank goodness Barbara had explained the dynasties during that first visit to her library, for it allowed him to focus on the far more interesting tidbit: the name of the collection’s owner. “Digby Pratt, the art patron?”
The one who had been ruined in February when news of his gambling debts had been made public? He insisted he had the money to pay them, and as far as Kenneth knew, he had; but the negative publicity had driven the poor man to his sickbed.
Barbara, however, was nodding eagerly. “Yes, the very same.” She flipped a page. “And Lord Bottomley has an incomplete set—”
“Lord Stanwick Bottomley? The one with the illegitimate son?” The news had broken in the scandal sheets just before Christmas.
She blinked at him in confusion. “I do not know, I had not heard that. His Egyptian collection is really quite extensive. Unlike…” She flipped another sheet, her finger stabbing at the paper.
“Sir Horatio Woodcock. He is a hobbyist, really, just looking for someplace to spend his wife’s money.
He has a set of jars found in a priestess’ tomb, but I do not recall their full origin. ”
Kenneth’s heart was thudding against his ribcage, and it had nothing to do with her proximity.
Horatio Woodcock had been in the papers last month when one of his daughters supposedly ran off with her dancing tutor.
Och, the family put it out that she’d just retired to their country estate, but that hadn’t stopped the gossip from swirling around them—and she had never returned to Society.
Last Kenneth had heard, Woodcock hadn’t shown his face in public yet.
His mind whirled.
What were the odds?
What were the odds that every single collector on Barbara’s list had been the object of scandal in the last year?
She flipped a page. “Reginald Fondlet—I have never met him, but I remembered Mr. Sinter once told me of the man’s exquisite Middle Kingdom canopic jars of Pharaoh’s wetnurse.”
“Fondlet was involved in a duel in March over rumors of his wife’s affair,” Kenneth murmured dully. Shocked. Another coincidence?
“Really? Did he survive? I suppose if he did not someone else will own the jars now.” She clucked her tongue, then flipped the page. “The only other collection I can remember with a set of canopic jars belonging to a woman is—”
“The Duke of Reardon?” Kenneth guessed, wracking his brain for those recently featured in the scandal sheets. “Lord Stiffy? Sir William Gropington?” A sudden, horrible thought hit him: The Rake Review! “Dear God, not the new Earl of Merevale?”
Barbara’s lips were parted, her eyes wide in surprise. Unable to help himself, Kenneth scooped up her hands and squeezed them, not caring that the pencil was in danger of snapping.
“Barbie! Tell me it’s no’ Merevale?”
She blinked. “It is not Merevale.”
“Thank fook,” he sighed. “Wait! Did ye tell me that just because I demanded ye tell me that?”
“Well, yes.” Barbara winked, her boldness tightening his loins. “But it is still true. If the Earl of Merevale has any interest in Egyptian antiquities, I don’t know of it.”
“Oh, thank fook,” he repeated as he exhaled.
She squeezed his hands. “Language, Kenneth.”
From across the room, Annabelle called, “Speak up, I am taking notes. How is fook spelled, do you think?”
Barbara didn’t drop her gaze when she raised her voice.
“I think you are supposed to be ignoring our conversation.” Leaning closer to Kenneth, she offered him a soft smile.
“Now, tell me, how did you guess the last collector on my list is William Gropington? His collection is small and he is new to the art, but he has been to many of the same salons I attend, and I know he was interested in canopic jars. Mr. Nutt told me in the autumn Gropington had acquired a lovely set.”
Gropington.
Fondlet.
Woodcock.
Bottomley.
Nutt.
Standish.
All men whose names had been tarnished in the gossip columns in the last nine months. All men who were known for their Egyptian antiquities collection. All men who owned rare sets of canopic jars.
And two of those sets, at least, were forgeries.
Kenneth’s eyes narrowed as his mind jumped from one possibility to the next, his gaze locked on Barbara, but not really seeing her.
“Kenneth?” she prompted in a low tone. “Should I be concerned?”
“How certain are ye that Standish and Nutt’s jar sets were real? The last time ye saw them? Afore last time, I mean.”
She bit her lip, her gaze dropping to his chin. “I—I do not know—”
“Barbara.” He squeezed her hand, drawing her gaze back up. “Guess. I dinnae need this to stand up in court, I need yer gut. I trust yer gut.”
It was a strange realization, but as he’d told her last night, he did trust her when it came to these antiquities.
She’d spent her life living through them, unable to have the adventures she so clearly wanted thanks to her status as a lady, and perhaps in some small way by her foot.
She knew these antiquities, and he had to depend on that knowledge.
Perhaps whatever he’d said had convinced her, because her eyes had gone wide.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I would have noticed the patina inconsistencies, I am certain. At some point since the last time I examined those collections, the sets of jars have been replaced with replicas. Forgeries.”
Kenneth felt his shoulders slump as breath escaped him. Relief? Nay—but the knowledge he was on the trail of a case. One he needed to get to the bottom of, if he was going to understand the accusations made against Standish.
Standish and Nutt both being in the scandal sheets thanks to unfortunate rumors? Unlucky. But all seven men? Statistically improbable.
“Kenneth—of the collections I noted, I have only toured three, and those were over the last several years. I could not tell you if anything else has changed, much less been replaced by forgeries.”
“We need to see them.” He jerked his chin up in realization. “Nay, ye need to get in to see them. To catalog the forgeries without them kenning.”
“Without who knowing? Kenneth, what is going on?”
This was big.
This was bigger than Standish being accused of treason—another rumor from the scandal sheets!
This was bigger than his need to be with Barbara, or his attempts to make the Standish investigation easier.
This was big…and he couldn’t do it alone.
If none of the five collectors she’d named today had forgeries in their collections, this would be a dead end.
But if they did, if that was one more thing which connected them—feminine canopic jars in their collections, forgeries, and ruinous rumors in the gossip columns—then Kenneth’s superiors needed to know.
Because the Standish investigation would be so much bigger than they thought.
And in order to determine that, he needed Barbara.
He needed to trust Barbara, needed her brilliant mind. Needed her to trust him.
And that meant she needed to know the truth. All of it.
“Kenneth?” she whispered, concern in those lovely blue eyes.
Decision made, he abruptly twisted, dropping her hand and reaching for the satchel he’d placed on the floor. “Miss Annabelle!” he called, suddenly desperate to make this happen. “I have a proposition.”