Captain Durant's Countess - By Maggie Robinson Page 0,50

beneath a plain linen cap. If Reyn didn’t know she was a countess, he’d take her for a superior housemaid. She certainly was not a silk-clad seductress come to deliver another birthday present.

“I trust you’ve had breakfast,” she said, moving to the fireplace. Her shadowed brown eyes focused on a space just to the right of his left ear, not the rug at her feet where they’d begun their affair.

So she hadn’t slept much either. “Indeed. I couldn’t do it justice. I’m used to simpler fare, you know.”

“Tell them what you like, and you shall have it. The staff has been instructed to cater to your wishes.”

“You’re too generous, Lady Kelby.”

“You are our guest, Captain.”

“I am your employee. I don’t want to forget my place.” Bought and paid for, fed like a pig destined for slaughter. A full stomach wouldn’t make death any sweeter. No matter how much he was indulged, he’d never be at ease.

Maris twisted her fingers nervously.

Is she recalling where they had been and what they had done just hours ago? Reyn shook his head. Best to stop thinking of that. He grabbed a box from a stack and thumped it on the table. “Shall we begin with this? It’s number twelve.”

“Shouldn’t we begin with one?”

“That box was too heavy for me to bring here by myself. It will have to be opened in the room it sits in, or transported on that cart you mentioned. How will we go about this, Lady Kelby?”

She frowned. “I suppose the best way is to unpack each crate, number, and describe the contents, then put everything back except for what might interest Henry.”

The whole thing sounded ridiculous to him. If they were only going to put all the things back in their dark little boxes, what really was the point? A generation from now, someone might decide to throw the lot away as a fire hazard, though perhaps their inventory might dissuade them.

Maris moved over to a chair at the long table and handed Reyn a pair of large gardeners’ gloves. “Please wear these.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. Some of the artifacts might be too delicate to hold up against human touch.” She pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from her apron pocket and put them on.

Reyn followed suit, then picked up the crowbar and pried box number twelve open. His first thought was there was indeed a mummy inside, for strips of fraying linen were wrapped around a giant misshapen lump. The box didn’t smell as if it contained a desiccated body, however, so he gingerly removed the lump from the box and set it before the countess. “You do the honors.”

Her expertise was evident. Each piece of fabric was painstakingly removed with tweezers that also came out of her pocket. He wondered how she opened her birthday presents. Was she as careful or did she rip into things with abandon like a greedy child? He’d bet the former.

Reyn was no wiser what the object was once she’d uncovered it. The heap of linen rags on the table looked more valuable. “What the blazes is that?”

“The statue is South American, quite ancient, I wager. I believe it must have been sent here by Henry’s brother. His ship escorted the Portuguese Court to Brazil when they fled Napoleon’s invasion in 1808.”

“David’s father?”

Maris nodded. “Yes. He was in the Royal Navy. He died on the return voyage, poor man. He was nothing at all like his son.”

“Why isn’t David in possession of this clay thing?”

“If it was delivered here, it was intended for Henry. He’s interested in comparative civilizations. This is primitive vis-à-vis his Etruscan treasures from the same era. I think we’ll put it aside, although he must have seen it once.” Maris made a bed of cloth and laid the stature on top of it.

In Reyn’s opinion it looked like a mud pie any half-wit child could make. He watched as Maris removed her gloves and wrote in one of the blank ledgers. She lined up a ruler next to the thing and squinted, then pulled out a pair of spectacles from the same capacious pocket. Reyn wondered what else could possibly be in there.

With the glasses perched on her nose, the countess resembled a no-nonsense governess, not that he’d had one. He had been sent off to school at an early age once the local curate washed his hands of him. The curate was the first in a long line of scholars who had