Read Online Hatshepsut's Collar (The Artifact Hunters #2) by A.W. Exley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A.W. Exley
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have faith in the veracity of your information?” she asked. All of Europe was aware of the power struggle between Britain, Russia, and China. Each empire jockeyed for the upper hand over the other two in a constantly changing ménage a trois.
He snorted. “British Intelligence is without equal.”
Cara leaned on the arm of the sofa, letting the ermine fall away from her bust as she looked up at the constable. “Yet you didn’t know Nate married three years ago.”
His mouth snapped shut. His cheeks flushed red and he snorted through his nose.
Cara bit the inside of her mouth to stop from laughing aloud.
Someone’s going to get it as soon as I leave. May as well spread the trouble around.
“Tell me, Sir John, the gallantry of the British military is renowned overseas, so is it not a shame when they fail to observe chivalry with their own countrymen?” She took the certificate back and replaced it in her little satchel.
The caterpillars snapped together, and Cara enjoyed watching their bizarre dance moves above his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
She gestured to her swollen and split lip. “Captain Hankin struck me yesterday because I stood in front of a valuable artwork he wanted destroyed.”
The eyebrows were in hot water now; red heat of outrage flushed his face. “He
what
?”
“And what exactly were his soldiers looking for in our house?” She lowered her tone to a conspiratorial level. “I’m rather dubious as to what they thought to find amongst my undergarments?”
Embarrassment warred with outrage for dominance over his face now, the caterpillar eyebrows frozen in shock at the mental image of the soldiers pawing through her lingerie.
“I’d like to see my husband now, thank you.” She gave her sweetest smile as she rose to her feet.
He took her hand and bowed over her fingers. “Of course, Lady Lyons. And accept my most profound apology for the unpleasantness of yesterday. I will ensure the culprits are spoken to.”
Outside his office, her personal guard waited and she was led from headquarters. Behind her, she heard Sir John bellow. “Bring me Hankin. Now!”
She walked around the east side of the inner buildings and under another arch to reach Cradle Tower. She lifted the heavy skirts to mount the ancient stone stairs. Worn by the passage of thousands of feet, over hundreds of years the narrow stairway opened to a small antechamber occupied by two bored looking soldiers in the now familiar uniform. These guard weren’t Tower staff, but members of HMRAS. The red of their uniform relieved by a pale blue stripe down the leg to symbolise they protected the skies. Their rifles were propped against the wall, under a narrow window looking back out over the Tower’s internal courtyards while they played cards at a tiny table shoved in one corner. A large and ancient iron door stood alone in the middle of the wall opposite the stairs. A tiny grate allowed only the smallest glimpse of the prisoner within.
“Lady Lyons to visit her husband,” her soldier escort said to the others. “She’s got half an hour.” Without waiting for a response, he trotted back down the stairs with a clatter of boots and bang of his ornamental sword.
One guard dropped his hand of cards and rose. “Half an hour, then.” He repeated as he approached the door. Around his waist hung a small ironmonger’s shop of numerous keys of all shapes and sizes. No two looked the same. His fingers caressed them and pulled one along the chain, making sufficient space for it to reach the ancient lock.
The key turned soundlessly, the lock well-oiled and well maintained. He swung the door open. “Visitor, milord. The Lady Lyons to see you,” he announced as though Cara stepped into a parlour, not a bone-jarring freezing cell with moss and lichen growing from the walls. She was surprised water didn’t trickle down the stone.
“You have thirty minutes, milady,” he told Cara as he ushered her through and closed the door
He snorted. “British Intelligence is without equal.”
Cara leaned on the arm of the sofa, letting the ermine fall away from her bust as she looked up at the constable. “Yet you didn’t know Nate married three years ago.”
His mouth snapped shut. His cheeks flushed red and he snorted through his nose.
Cara bit the inside of her mouth to stop from laughing aloud.
Someone’s going to get it as soon as I leave. May as well spread the trouble around.
“Tell me, Sir John, the gallantry of the British military is renowned overseas, so is it not a shame when they fail to observe chivalry with their own countrymen?” She took the certificate back and replaced it in her little satchel.
The caterpillars snapped together, and Cara enjoyed watching their bizarre dance moves above his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
She gestured to her swollen and split lip. “Captain Hankin struck me yesterday because I stood in front of a valuable artwork he wanted destroyed.”
The eyebrows were in hot water now; red heat of outrage flushed his face. “He
what
?”
“And what exactly were his soldiers looking for in our house?” She lowered her tone to a conspiratorial level. “I’m rather dubious as to what they thought to find amongst my undergarments?”
Embarrassment warred with outrage for dominance over his face now, the caterpillar eyebrows frozen in shock at the mental image of the soldiers pawing through her lingerie.
“I’d like to see my husband now, thank you.” She gave her sweetest smile as she rose to her feet.
He took her hand and bowed over her fingers. “Of course, Lady Lyons. And accept my most profound apology for the unpleasantness of yesterday. I will ensure the culprits are spoken to.”
Outside his office, her personal guard waited and she was led from headquarters. Behind her, she heard Sir John bellow. “Bring me Hankin. Now!”
She walked around the east side of the inner buildings and under another arch to reach Cradle Tower. She lifted the heavy skirts to mount the ancient stone stairs. Worn by the passage of thousands of feet, over hundreds of years the narrow stairway opened to a small antechamber occupied by two bored looking soldiers in the now familiar uniform. These guard weren’t Tower staff, but members of HMRAS. The red of their uniform relieved by a pale blue stripe down the leg to symbolise they protected the skies. Their rifles were propped against the wall, under a narrow window looking back out over the Tower’s internal courtyards while they played cards at a tiny table shoved in one corner. A large and ancient iron door stood alone in the middle of the wall opposite the stairs. A tiny grate allowed only the smallest glimpse of the prisoner within.
“Lady Lyons to visit her husband,” her soldier escort said to the others. “She’s got half an hour.” Without waiting for a response, he trotted back down the stairs with a clatter of boots and bang of his ornamental sword.
One guard dropped his hand of cards and rose. “Half an hour, then.” He repeated as he approached the door. Around his waist hung a small ironmonger’s shop of numerous keys of all shapes and sizes. No two looked the same. His fingers caressed them and pulled one along the chain, making sufficient space for it to reach the ancient lock.
The key turned soundlessly, the lock well-oiled and well maintained. He swung the door open. “Visitor, milord. The Lady Lyons to see you,” he announced as though Cara stepped into a parlour, not a bone-jarring freezing cell with moss and lichen growing from the walls. She was surprised water didn’t trickle down the stone.
“You have thirty minutes, milady,” he told Cara as he ushered her through and closed the door
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