To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,26

sniffed. “A ’gyptian sarco—scarc-uh—a coffin, sir.”

Emmy could practically hear Franks’s curiosity get the better of him. Luc’s casual mention of the infamous archaeologist Giovanni Belzoni was a stroke of genius. Franks would be intrigued.

She gave a mental shake of the head at his gullibility. Honestly, hadn’t the man ever read about the Trojan horse? The classics were full of pithy warnings like “beware of messengers bearing gifts.” Luc’s Lord Burlington was entirely fictitious; a glance at Debrett’s last night had confirmed the title had died out with the last earl ten years ago.

But people were always impressed with aristocratic titles. Emmy wrinkled her nose. Just look at Harland, he was a prime example. He might be the Earl of Melton, but a fancy title didn’t change his core nature—that of irritatingly handsome cynic.

Franks, however, clearly subscribed to the maxim: Never look a gift horse in the mouth. “A sarcophagus, you say. How marvelous. Well, you’d better bring it in, then.”

“Can’t ’elp you there, guv’,” Luc said with cheerful regret. “Me back’s gone, see? Can’t lift anyfink ’eavier than a tankard o’ beer. That’s why I drives a cart, see?”

Franks sighed. “Oh, very well. You there, lad.” He was obviously calling to one of the many urchins loitering in the street. “Give me a hand with this crate.”

Emmy braced herself as she was slid off the back of the cart. She prayed whoever was helping Franks wouldn’t drop her—not only would that be extremely painful, but the game would most certainly be up if she spilled out of the sarcophagus. She swayed and bobbed, then her feet tilted upwards as she was carried up some steps, and then she was righted with a bump as the crate was, presumably, deposited on a table inside the museum.

The darkness lifted as Luc or Franks removed the outer lid of the crate. Pinpoints of light freckled her face.

“My goodness, that is extraordinary,” she heard Franks breathe. “I do believe it’s Middle Kingdom. Just look at that painted decoration!”

Emmy held her breath as something touched the lid of the sarcophagus, but Luc stepped in to avert disaster.

“If that’s all, sir, I’ll be goin’. Got myself an appointment wiv’ a laydee, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, no, of course,” Franks said distractedly. He bustled away from the case. “Here’s for your trouble. And my goodness, what time is it? I, too, am meeting a lady.”

“Ten to five, sir,” Luc said. “Sounds like we’d both best be off. Don’t do to keep a woman waitin’.”

“No, no, you’re quite right.” Franks gave one more longing sigh. “I suppose this can wait until morning.”

“That’s the spirit. Ain’t no dead ’gyptian more interesting than a handful o’ live muslin, now is there? Whatever poor bugger’s in there, he’ll still be dead tomorrow.” Luc cackled at his own joke, then turned it into an impressive fit of coughing. Emmy silently congratulated him on his performance. He really did sound as though he were a frail sixty-year-old cab driver with bad lungs.

With a wash of relief, she heard the scuffles and footfalls of the men fade away. A door clicked. She waited an extra few minutes, just to be sure she was alone, then pushed aside the lid and took a grateful gulp of cool, fresh air.

She was in.

Chapter 10.

After a brief glance around, Emmy deduced her location—the mysteriously named “dusting room,” beneath the northeast stairwell. It seemed to be a storeroom. A bizarre array of items in various stages of restoration sat on wooden benches and shelves. A glassy-eyed taxidermy zebra head gave her a reproachful glare as she stretched her arms above her head to relieve her cramps. She stuck her tongue out at it. At least she wasn’t stuffed and mounted on a shield.

Not yet, at least.

She climbed out of the box, glad that she was wearing her usual thieving attire of shirt, breeches, and stockings. She envied the men of this world; breeches were far more practical than acres of billowing skirts and petticoats.

Camille had designed the outfit. Emmy might be a thief, so practicality was tantamount, but there was no reason she could not also be stylish. According to Camille, black, while slimming, was “not at all the thing,” despite being a great favorite with highwaymen. Brown was not to be considered; “Not with your complexion, darling.”

So Emmy wore midnight blue for her nocturnal adventures. Dark enough to disappear into the shadows, flattering to dark hair and grey eyes. Father had approved, as had Luc, so