the covers. Drake, however, seemed unperturbed, rising to greet the Latimer girl with his usual smoothness.
‘Miss Latimer, I had thought you abed. Ah, it is not surprising that you should have difficulty sleeping after such a dreadful experience. Shall I warm you some milk, to help you drift off?’
Arms crossed, she leaned against the doorjamb, all injured dignity and unrelenting disapproval. ‘No, thank you, Mr Drake.’
‘Well, then, since you are awake…’ he glanced at Trey with sympathy. ‘A message was left here for you earlier. I shall just fetch it.’
He eased his way past her, but her disdain appeared to be focused firmly on Trey. He pasted on his most obnoxious look of unconcern and waved her into the room. ‘Good, I am glad you are up. We have much to discuss.’
‘Yes, so much that you decided not to wait for me, I see.’
Trey shrugged. ‘Drake said you were abed. I merely meant to begin sorting out this mess.’
She glared, but held her peace as Drake returned, a sealed missive in hand. He handed it to her and shot Trey a mute look of apology.
Trey ignored him. A belated sense of uneasiness had him watching the girl instead. Who would be sending the chit a message here? A curious look passed over her face as she broke the seal and began to read.
‘Something is not right,’ he said. ‘Who, besides the people in this room, or asleep upstairs, would know you are here?’
She did not answer. Trey glanced over at her. Even in the candlelight she looked bloodless. Her face was blank, her gaze fixed to the sheet she still held with trembling fingers. Trey had to suppress a sigh of exasperation. Lord, not again.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Miss Latimer?’
Mutely, she handed him the paper.
It was too much; too many emotions for a person to process in a single day. Chione found that her trembling legs would not support her. She sank into Mr Drake’s abandoned chair and watched Lord Treyford read the note.
Le grand homme de la vague déferlante, he lives. He is in need of help. Find the coffer.
Alive. For a moment she was convinced that it was an illusion, a hallucination concocted out of her own grief and fear. But the proof was right there in Lord Treyford’s hand. Hungrily, she stared at it. Thank God, she had been wrong. Mervyn was alive.
‘What is this? A man from the…surf? What nonsense is this, Miss Latimer?’
‘Great man of the surf. Or something close to that. I think perhaps that part of it was originally in an island dialect.’
‘What was in—?’His voice, growing loud again with impatience, suddenly broke off, and the look he gave her softened into a sort of exasperated pity. ‘Miss Latimer, as much as it pains me, perhaps we should postpone this discussion. I fear the excitements of the day have been too much for you. Let Mr Drake show you back to your chamber.’
‘No, I am fine. Do not fear, Lord Treyford. I have not come unhinged.’ Chione’s weary brain had finally processed the rest of the message. Mervyn was alive, but he needed help. How could she help him? She hadn’t a clue as to where he was. And what was the coffer? All at once the fatigue that had swept over her was gone, lifted by her incredible relief, replaced by her anxiety, her need to be doing something, anything, to get to the bottom of all of this. She stood, then began to pace, from the fire to the window, and back again.
‘Miss Latimer,’ Lord Treyford began with a commanding rumble, ‘sit down. I am a man of very little patience, and you have already consumed what small amount I possess.’
Chione swore she could feel his words resonating in the pit of her belly, and for some reason the sensation sent her restlessness spiralling even higher. He wore a tremendous frown and his knuckles were white where he clutched the note she had given him.
Her fingers shook as she went to extricate it. For a moment she was close enough to feel the heat and the aura of masculinity that emanated from him. ‘I do apologise, but do you understand what this means? It means I was wrong. Mervyn is alive.’
He ran a hand along his jaw and up to his temple. When he spoke it was with the exaggerated patience one uses with a wayward child.
‘I think, Miss Latimer, that it is time for you to sit yourself down and start giving me some direct answers.’
She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a halting hand. ‘No, don’t talk. I am going to do the talking, you are going to answer only the questions I put to you. But before we begin, I am going to need another drink. Or two.’
He crossed over to a tray already set with a decanter and glasses. Chione sat in a chair in front of the empty fireplace and watched him toss one drink back immediately and pour himself another. When he returned, he held two glasses. He offered her one.
‘Oh, no. I don’t think…’
He held up his hand again. ‘No. No talking and no thinking. Either is bound to get me in trouble. Take the drink, and just answer.’
He took the chair across from her and sat, staring at her with that broody frown that set her insides to simmering. Chione had had enough. ‘Before I answer your questions, I have one of my own. Do you still have the scarab?’
He was startled enough to answer. ‘Of course.’
She sat back in her chair in relief. ‘I’m afraid I must apologise for my earlier outburst and tell you that I do indeed wish to have it.’
‘Tonight would illustrate that you are not alone in that desire.’
She started to speak, but he cut her off. ‘No, I do not want to hear protestations that it could have been something else that those thieves were after. We both know the truth. They wanted the damned scarab, and it’s only dumb luck that they don’t have it right now.’
Chione froze. Had his intentions shifted upon the discovery of the scarab’s value?
It seemed he read her mind. ‘I travelled here to bring the curst thing to you,’ he growled, ‘and so I shall. After you have given me what I need.’
Chione took a sip from her glass for courage. She managed—only just—not to cough and sputter as it went down. ‘And what is it that you need, my lord?’ Her saucy delivery might have had an impact if not for the brandy-induced wheeze at the end.
‘Information,’ he clipped. ‘I want you to tell me just what the hell that scarab really is. Why Richard was killed for it, why you damn near swooned at the sight of it, why someone followed me all the way from Egypt, damn it, to try to steal it from you tonight.’ The rumbling volume of his voice had raised a notch with each question.
Chione sat silent, considering. He might be curt, temperamental, cranky, even, but Richard had trusted this man. And he had proven himself worthy, keeping his word, abandoning his work, clearly against his own inclination. And tonight he had saved them all.
Chione was many things, but not a fool. She needed to find Mervyn and knew she would not get it done on her own. She needed help. And
