futilely.
“I’m afraid you have very little choice in that matter,” he whispered as he lifted the lid.
“But . . . but my dress! ’Twill be ruined!” she whispered, but to no avail. Before she could protest further, she was thrown into the familiar dusty, musty confines of the sarcophagus.
“As if a girl like you would ever wear a dress twice in any case,” he delivered his parting shot in a whisper and brought down the lid, just as Lord Fieldstone (incidentally, director of the War Department) opened the library door for the second time that evening.
Seven
“ H ULLO? Who’s there?” Lord Fieldstone asked in a stage whisper, groping in the darkness.
“Marcus Worth, my lord. Thank you for coming.” Marcus stepped past Lord Fieldstone and shut the library door quietly behind him.
“Worth! Thank goodness. I came in here before and found the Marquis of Broughton nosing around my treasures.”
“Yes, I know. I asked you to meet me, because I—”
“You know?” Lord Fieldstone asked, interrupting Marcus. “How?”
“Oh. Um, I was here, actually. In hiding. I must say you got rid of him marvelously.”
“Where did you hide? You didn’t knock anything over, did you?”
“No!” Marcus held up his hands in protest. “No, I, erm, was in the sarcophagus. I was very pleased to find it vacant.”
“Vacant?” Fieldstone looked momentarily puzzled. Then his brow cleared. “Oh, that’s right, we took the mummy out last week to have it repaired. A limb fell loose.”
“Hmm,” was the only reply Marcus could give and the only one innocuous enough to cover up the muffled groan he was certain emanated from the interior of the sarcophagus. Luckily, Lord Fieldstone did not seem to notice.
“I do hope you didn’t nick anything on the inside, Worth. How was the fit?” Lord Fieldstone made for the coffin and almost had his hand under the lid before Marcus reached his side and ever so gently held the lid down.
“The fit was tight, sir, but everything is intact, I promise. Both of mine and the sarcophagus. I asked to meet you here for a very specific reason, but now, I must wonder if you wouldn’t recommend somewhere more spacious. I should hate to be responsible for breaking any of your Venuses or nymphs. How many nymphs are there, by the bye?” Marcus asked casually as he tried to maneuver Fieldstone to the door. Unfortunately, Fieldstone was not easily moved.
“Forty-two. And somewhere more spacious would be nice; however, I’ve got a houseful of guests, a wife with four glasses of punch in her, and absolutely no time to dillydally. So tell me what it is you want.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather—”
“Out with it! Now!”
Marcus frowned, hesitating. On the one hand, it had taken too long to get face-to-face time with the director. On the other, a pair of prying ears was not three feet away. However, time was the most crucial factor, so Marcus squared his shoulders and pitched his voice low, hoping it was too quiet to hear through stone.
“Sir, I have received some information from trusted sources that perhaps an old enemy has found his way to London and is plotting . . .”
“Plotting what?” Unfortunately, Lord Fieldstone’s voice remained at normal pitch.
“I’m not certain, sir.”
“Ah, I see. And who is the old enemy?”
“I hesitate to say, as he’s meant to be dead,” Marcus replied.
“Ah, I see,” Fieldstone repeated. “And who are the informants?”
“A workingman who has been of use in the past. I trust his information.”
Lord Fieldstone set his jaw and took a moment to digest this. Marcus held his breath and knew all too well that he sounded a right blockhead. A street informant tells him a dead man is plotting something dire? And with this, he decided to accost the head of the War Department? Maybe he was boxing at shadows, but his gut, the one thing he never doubted, told him different.
“Worth,” Lord Fieldstone began, as he paced the room
“I’m afraid you have very little choice in that matter,” he whispered as he lifted the lid.
“But . . . but my dress! ’Twill be ruined!” she whispered, but to no avail. Before she could protest further, she was thrown into the familiar dusty, musty confines of the sarcophagus.
“As if a girl like you would ever wear a dress twice in any case,” he delivered his parting shot in a whisper and brought down the lid, just as Lord Fieldstone (incidentally, director of the War Department) opened the library door for the second time that evening.
Seven
“ H ULLO? Who’s there?” Lord Fieldstone asked in a stage whisper, groping in the darkness.
“Marcus Worth, my lord. Thank you for coming.” Marcus stepped past Lord Fieldstone and shut the library door quietly behind him.
“Worth! Thank goodness. I came in here before and found the Marquis of Broughton nosing around my treasures.”
“Yes, I know. I asked you to meet me, because I—”
“You know?” Lord Fieldstone asked, interrupting Marcus. “How?”
“Oh. Um, I was here, actually. In hiding. I must say you got rid of him marvelously.”
“Where did you hide? You didn’t knock anything over, did you?”
“No!” Marcus held up his hands in protest. “No, I, erm, was in the sarcophagus. I was very pleased to find it vacant.”
“Vacant?” Fieldstone looked momentarily puzzled. Then his brow cleared. “Oh, that’s right, we took the mummy out last week to have it repaired. A limb fell loose.”
“Hmm,” was the only reply Marcus could give and the only one innocuous enough to cover up the muffled groan he was certain emanated from the interior of the sarcophagus. Luckily, Lord Fieldstone did not seem to notice.
“I do hope you didn’t nick anything on the inside, Worth. How was the fit?” Lord Fieldstone made for the coffin and almost had his hand under the lid before Marcus reached his side and ever so gently held the lid down.
“The fit was tight, sir, but everything is intact, I promise. Both of mine and the sarcophagus. I asked to meet you here for a very specific reason, but now, I must wonder if you wouldn’t recommend somewhere more spacious. I should hate to be responsible for breaking any of your Venuses or nymphs. How many nymphs are there, by the bye?” Marcus asked casually as he tried to maneuver Fieldstone to the door. Unfortunately, Fieldstone was not easily moved.
“Forty-two. And somewhere more spacious would be nice; however, I’ve got a houseful of guests, a wife with four glasses of punch in her, and absolutely no time to dillydally. So tell me what it is you want.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather—”
“Out with it! Now!”
Marcus frowned, hesitating. On the one hand, it had taken too long to get face-to-face time with the director. On the other, a pair of prying ears was not three feet away. However, time was the most crucial factor, so Marcus squared his shoulders and pitched his voice low, hoping it was too quiet to hear through stone.
“Sir, I have received some information from trusted sources that perhaps an old enemy has found his way to London and is plotting . . .”
“Plotting what?” Unfortunately, Lord Fieldstone’s voice remained at normal pitch.
“I’m not certain, sir.”
“Ah, I see. And who is the old enemy?”
“I hesitate to say, as he’s meant to be dead,” Marcus replied.
“Ah, I see,” Fieldstone repeated. “And who are the informants?”
“A workingman who has been of use in the past. I trust his information.”
Lord Fieldstone set his jaw and took a moment to digest this. Marcus held his breath and knew all too well that he sounded a right blockhead. A street informant tells him a dead man is plotting something dire? And with this, he decided to accost the head of the War Department? Maybe he was boxing at shadows, but his gut, the one thing he never doubted, told him different.
“Worth,” Lord Fieldstone began, as he paced the room
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