What the Dashing Duke Deserves (Lords of Happenstance, #3) Read online

  Yet, here she was, her appearance completely altered, but why?

  “What the devil are you doing here, Juliana, and why are you in disguise?” he asked in a whisper. Even a nodcock could hear the rife speculation in his hushed tones. She used to have a waterfall of blonde hair that he’d admired very much.

  Her eyes rounded, the same cool blue of before, but no emotion showed in those depths. Heavy kohl lined them, making them seem bigger and more exotic. “You’re mistaken, sir.” When she went to turn away, Crispin grabbed hold of her upper arm and stilled her forward momentum.

  “I’m not.” He frowned. “I never forget a face. You are Miss Juliana Barrington.”

  And never would he forget this one. During their brief and unorthodox meetings, he’d been open to a courtship with her, but she was as mysterious as the tides and just as elusive, and then he’d had the title to contend with. He’d indulged in a few fleeting affairs since, for the attention toward him had fairly exploded from eligible females since he’d become a duke, but he wasn’t so naïve to think they’d been interested solely in him. Curiosity had won, of course, but none of those relationships had stuck in his memory like Juliana.

  “You are still mistaken. Now let me go.” She attempted to pry his fingers from her arm, but Crispin maintained his hold.

  “Lies, and you know it.” The mystery surrounding her deepened, as did his interest. Like all the times before when they’d bounced into each other, tiny fires lit in his blood.

  The woman rolled her eyes, and her lips set into a severe line that aged her beyond her years. “Fine.” With lazy consideration, as if she had all the time in the world, she roved her gaze up and down his person until he swore he felt her regard like a caress. “Mr. Crispin Herrick.” Certain smug satisfaction went through his chest at her acknowledgement. A trace of a grin curved her lush lips, distracting him. “I don’t think it’s any of your business who I am or what I’m doing here.”

  She might have remembered his name, but she certainly tried to ignore their previous unspoken relationship. Annoyance stabbed into him like a porcupine’s quill. What game did she play, and did he wish to join? “I think it is, for that ushabti belongs in this collection.” He gestured with his free hand toward the tabletop containing at least another ten more such statuettes.

  Something flickered in her eyes, gone so fast he couldn’t read it. “Actually, it doesn’t.”

  What the deuce did that mean? The mystery expanded. “How do you know? Have you suddenly become an expert in Egyptian art and funerary items since we last met?”

  A hint of pink stained her ivory cheeks, but she ignored his question with the same dogged determination that she’d shown in the past. “I found this particular piece.”

  Crispin snorted. “Yes, here. You found it right there and decided like every other pompous English person, that you must have it for a private collection.” This conversation was rapidly going nowhere.

  “And now it is not here and most certainly will not go into a private collection—mine or otherwise.” With a mighty wrench, she freed herself from his grasp. “Cheers, Mr. Herrick.”

  “So, is the chase on then?” he asked in a soft voice as his interest piqued.

  She paused, glanced at him from over her slim shoulder. “Perhaps.” A genuine smile took possession of her mouth. “Or perhaps I’ll vanish again. You don’t need the added intrigue.” Shadows clouded her eyes, and then she darted forward, intent to escape.

  Not this time.

  “Cairo is not that large of a city, Miss Barrington. I can easily make inquiries about you.”

  “I would rather you did not.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” He caught her up and again dared to lay a hand on her, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. She was a comforting sight from home even if she was a thief. No matter their prior association, a crime was a crime. “As for letting you walk right out of this museum, such as it is, with a stolen item, I refuse.”

  “And I cannot let you stop me.” Her tiny huff of frustration amused him, and the flash of annoyance in her face should have warned him away, but he’d never been good at reading a room, for he always wished to set people at ease or cajole them into a better mood. “It seems we are at an impasse.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. We can take up where our friendship left off... when you return the ushabti.”

  A guard entered the gallery, and the ring of his boot heels on the gritty and scuffed hardwood echoed in the space.

  “Let go,” she hissed, her attention on the approaching guard. “This is bigger than you.”

  “No,” he whispered back and renewed his grip. “You are a thief and you didn’t tell me of this rather interesting skill.” Hell, had she picked his pocket and he’d not noticed yet? Perhaps she’d been toying with him the whole time, damn her eyes.

  Again, why? He’d never truly known her at all, and that bothered him more than it should. I need to do better now that I’m a duke. Then another thought occurred. She’d called him by his given name. Had she known of recent events, she would have referred to him by his new title. How long had she been in Cairo, and what had she been doing during that time?

  In his musings, his grip grew lax and she easily freed herself. “Actually, I’m not a thief by trade; only by necessity. This was taken from me by... someone.” The delicate tendons of her throat worked with a hard swallow. The guard was nearly upon them. She dropped her voice further to a barely-there, thrilling whisper. “Now I’m taking my property back.”

  The burly guard cleared his throat as he bounced his gaze back and forth between them. “Closing time, Miss Khepri.” He rested his attention on Crispin. “Sir. I need to lock up.”

  Crispin’s mind spun again. She’d given herself an Egyptian surname? It meant morning sun. Why? What the devil was going on? The instincts that had won him a place in the King’s agents went on alert. Something wasn’t right.

  Before he could say anything, Juliana nodded. “Thank you. I was just finishing here, and telling my... this man goodbye.” She smiled at the man, and a swift stab of jealousy speared through him. Why wouldn’t she interact with him in such ease?

  No matter, she couldn’t go away with an artifact. He addressed the guard. “Before you go—”

  “Oh, damn.” Her utterance was so soft Crispin hardly heard it. Juliana fisted her hand in his cravat, pulled him swiftly to her and, rising up on her toes, she mashed her lips to his.

  It all happened so fast that he didn’t have the wherewithal to properly enjoy the gesture. What the bloody hell is happening? He blinked, met her gaze, for her eyes were wide open, yet again no emotion sparkled in those blue depths.

  But the kiss served its purpose. The guard walked away with a chuckle.

  When Juliana released him, Crispin gawked at her. She grinned. “Well, I must dash.” With a wink, she backed away. “See you around.” Then she was gone, leaving a trace scent of exotic spices and florals behind.

  Oh, hell no. In a daze, he gave chase. “You are stealing.”

  She snorted. “And you’re still butting in where you’re not wanted. Go away, Mr. Herrick.”

  “Explain to me why.” They’d reached the main gallery and she hadn’t slowed her flight.

  “Explain why you’re unwanted? That would take more time than I’m willing to give, I’m afraid.”

  When had she acquired such a tart mouth? “No. Why you have resorted to stealing.”

  “It’s complicated.

  “Nothing truly is.” Except that kiss back there and their prior association when she was going to great lengths to apparently hide everything.

  “There’s no time.” Juliana had reached the front door. She pressed the handle and was soon outside in an evening streaked with the vivid colors of a fast sunset.

  “Then answer me this,” he said as he joined her in front of the building. The unmistakable turn of the lock in the door behind him stated the museum was closed. People in Cairo took opera
ting hours—and going home to their dinners—seriously. “Why did you kiss me?”

  “Why not?” A shrug lifted her slim shoulders, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she kept her focus on the bustling street before them. “We’ve flirted with each other enough times, there’s heat and attraction between us. Perhaps I wanted to kiss you because of that.”

  He wasn’t born yesterday. “Or perhaps you wanted to distract me from your real purpose.”

  “We’ll never know, will we?” Amusement threaded through the question.

  An altercation between a carriage and a horse-drawn cart caught Crispin’s attention, and all too soon, Juliana was off.

  “Enjoy Cairo, Mr. Herrick.” She slipped away and blew him a kiss, and when she drew the scarf over her head, she blended in all too easily with the throng surging about him.

  Drat. What now?

  Chapter Two

  Though evening in Cairo, the heat of the day lingered and wouldn’t completely fade until after the sun had been down for a few hours.

  Miss Juliana Barrington—or rather Ana Khepri as the locals knew her—passed through a grand arch called the Wikala al-Qutn, which was built by Sultan al-Ghuri in 1511. It was one of three similar gates leading into the historic Khan el-Khalili, the largest marketplace bazaar in Cairo. The ornate gate always made her imagination soar to far off places in Turkey and brought to mind the days when sultans ruled the Ottoman Empire. Upper stories of the stone and brick buildings within the bazaar were lined with iron-grilled windows behind which merchants’ rooms were located. The whole of the complex was locked behind the massive gates at night that prohibited looting.

  Of course, crime in Cairo happened with alarming frequency, especially to unaccompanied females, of which she was one.

  But she had the ushabti and that was all that mattered. Finally, she had the piece of the artifact, and that meant she was closer to finding the treasure... and completing her mission.

  Not to mention closer to having the funds to clear her father’s name—or rather, her surrogate father and the person who was in trouble because of her.

  The one fly in the ointment was the appearance of Mr. Crispin Herrick. Of all the men in the world to not only find her here but recognize her from her old life, it had to have been him.

  As she darted through the crowded streets of the marketplace—pathways and alleys she knew like the back of her hand—she let her mind linger on the pawnbroker.

  A year and a half had passed since she’d last seen him. When they’d first met at a ton function in London, he’d introduced himself as the “Honorable” Crispin Herrick. The second son of a viscount, he’d been given leave to follow his own path, for the title would never belong to him, so he’d opened a pawn broker shop on Brooks Street. In that, he and she had been equals, for she was also the second child of a viscount. Though their circles intersected occasionally, he’d been congenial, polite, and never ceased smiling. She’d visited the place a few times, for who better to keep a finger on the pulse of the illicit antiquities market than a man who knew the financial instabilities of members of the ton headed for Dunn territory?

  He’d had the perfect spot to hunt for the piece she was after without giving away too much notice, but nothing remotely similar to that had come into that shop. They’d struck up a friendship. Conversation consisted of antiquities and countries of interest, as well as the history therein. Brooks Street bustled with patrons, and there’d been many times she was free to browse through his shop without accompaniment. Such a life, of watching adventures from afar, seeing the remains of treasure hunting, sounded nice and would offer a haven from the constant anxiety and hiding of her own, but he wasn’t marriage-minded, and neither was she free.

  Polite, society flirting, a few dances were all they’d shared.

  Beyond that, Crispin had a pleasing, tenor voice and a ready grin. Both softened his strong features and gave life to his oval-shaped face. His shock of blond hair, that would probably curl if not for traces of pomade, fell over his brow in a certain way that made her want to brush it away and delve her fingers through the strands at his nape to find out if they were as soft as they looked, but she didn’t have that right. Not tall or thin, but not short or stout either, he fit somewhere in the middle, a nice, comfortable frame and form that some lucky lady would soon realize, and she’d flirt until he came up to scratch.

  Perhaps he was already married. Had he brought a wife to this country, perhaps on a wedding trip?

  The thought triggered a frown as Juliana skirted a knot of women haggling over various vegetables at a stall, no doubt for the evening meal or perhaps preparing for the weekend. A man such as Crispin Herrick wouldn’t remain single long. If she had been free, she would have snapped him up, for it wouldn’t have taken much. Hadn’t her superior always told her that the mission took precedence over her personal life? She’d not learned the lesson.

  Juliana grunted, pretended a piece of fruit she looked over hadn’t passed muster. As if she’d been afforded a personal life in the route she’d chosen. What she was had been thrust upon her, and she hadn’t been prepared for the sweeping extent to which the Crown might demand.

  With a valiant effort, she forced those thoughts from her mind before bitterness could once more take hold, for where there was bitterness, self-recrimination and loathing would always follow. None of which she had time for at the moment.

  In an effort to forget what had led her here, she pasted a mental image of Crispin Herrick into her mind’s eye. That led to the question of why the man was in Cairo.

  And now that he’d seen her, called her by her real name, had caught her in the act of taking the ushabti from the museum, he’d be trouble. No matter what, he mustn’t know about her life here or why it was so important she succeed.

  She patted her reticule for the tactile reassurance that the piece was still with her. I cannot worry about that now, not when I’m one step closer to my goal. If she managed to prove herself, perhaps it would land her back in the good graces of the Crown. Her heart squeezed. If that happened, she could return to England and resume the life she’d once enjoyed, the life that had first brought her into contact with Crispin Herrick.

  Perhaps pursue a potential... something with him if he was of a mind... because now she was free to flirt in earnest if she chose. A bark of bitter laughter escaped her throat before she could recall it. If he could look beyond her past, of the horrors she’d inadvertently caused.

  No one would, and outside her superior, she’d told no one. Couldn’t. And hadn’t she been shown that romance while on a mission was a bad idea indeed? It was what had led her to steal back the dratted ushabti to begin with.

  Another dream dead. But then, she was used to that, wasn’t she?

  As Juliana threaded her way between people and listened to their laughs and calls and chatter, she ducked beneath awnings, darted around lattice-work screens that separated floor space in the larger stalls. Cutting through the Khan el-Khalili was the quickest way to seeing her contact to authenticate the piece, but it was also a dangerous prospect, for once night fell—and it would do so quickly here as opposed to England—the danger of being abroad increased exponentially.

  I have to risk it.

  Then the hairs on her nape prickled, and her nerves did that crawling thing that never failed to send her pulse up a notch.

  Someone was following her.

  Casually, she paused at a vendor’s table draped with colorful scarves made from all sorts of fabrics, some trimmed with beads and sequins. As she did, she quickly glanced over her shoulder and then tamped down the urge to utter a curse. Why was he here? Perhaps it was coincidence; perhaps it was fate, but she doubted both. This was deliberate, and he was no doubt bound and determined to retrieve the damned ushabti.

  Juliana thanked the vendor but shook her head. “Not today. I have an appointment.” Then she once more went on her way, yet her thoughts jostled into a tangled knot.

  Onc
e, during a ball both she and Crispin had attended, she’d tugged him into an empty ladies’ retiring room, and when he wished to know why, she told him she’d wanted a kiss. The silly man had obliged, of course—he was always too polite for his own good—but he’d kissed her like a gentleman, and it was perfunctory, vastly unsatisfying and over too soon. He’d retreated almost immediately for fear of giving the tabbies something to talk about, and she’d left the ball, for she’d had a different mark to attend to that night.

  But she’d always wondered about the pawn broker. She could do worse than the son of a viscount... if she wished to marry again. A year or so later, her life still wasn’t her own and was even more twisted than before, and she wanted no part of romance. That she couldn’t risk.

  Yet why was he here in the same city as she, and why now?

  A call from a vendor yanked her from her musings. There was no time to puzzle out Crispin’s presence, not when it was such a commodity.

  As she passed the famous coffee shop, Fishawi’s, she ducked into an alleyway, determined to double back once she’d thrown him off her trail, but a gloved hand closed about her wrist and a sharp yank backward brought her deeper into the lengthening shadows of the grime-filled alley. “Unhand me at once.” She hadn’t lived in Cairo for the past year without knowing how to defend herself from the criminal element. “I mean it.” With her free hand, she delved into a clever pocket sewn into her skirting and drew forth a small lady’s pistol. Only then did she twist around and look into her assailant’s face.

  “You.” Damn and blast. How had he managed to move so quickly?

  “So it is.” In some amusement, he glanced at her pistol. Deuced males who never took her seriously.

  “Go away, Crispin. I don’t have time for this,” she hissed while a surge of warm anger shot through her. He’d ruin everything; she was told to come alone.