Chapter Two

May 13, 1818

Maitland Pawn Shop

Half Moon Street

Near Piccadilly

Mayfair, London

Miss Charity Maitland looked around the small shop that had once belonged to her father, and a sigh escaped her. She'd spent many happy hours working in the pawn shop with him over the years, but all that had changed six months ago when he'd died unexpectedly by drowning. Of course, since his body had been pulled from the water near the docks, she suspected the death had been from unnatural causes, but there was no way for her to prove it and she had no proof.

Except a feeling in her gut that also served as a warning.

None of that helped alleviate the grief she'd kept bottled inside, for there had been precious little time for that; the shop needed her attention every minute of the day, and in the evenings, she was too exhausted to do much more than keep herself alive.

And, quite frankly, she felt as if she could break at any moment.

Shoving those thoughts to the back of her mind, Charity concentrated on sweeping the floor and ridding it of dust. The front window needed cleaning, but she couldn't quite summon the energy to start that chore. Once the sweeping was done, she tidied some of the shelves, wiped away a few traces of dust, then she turned her attention to unpacking a few items that had arrived at the shop. Sooner or later, the last of what her father had ordered or taken in on trade would cease to arrive, and that would be a sad day indeed.

Every day that had gone by served as a reminder that she was now alone in the world. Her mother had died when she'd been a young child; she'd had an older brother, but he'd met his demise with a bad bout of pneumonia when he'd been an adolescent. After that, it had been her and her father, and since he'd always been the restless sort, when he traveled the world, she accompanied him.

Oh, they'd had such fun together!

Though some places had either been restricted due to the war or too dangerous to visit, they'd gone elsewhere, and the adventures they'd had more than made up for the fact there'd been a war going on that seemed to ravage most of the world. Seeing new sights and meeting new people had kept her mind occupied, and though she'd had a governess when she was young and there was still an education to be had, the rest of it had enriched her life in ways remaining in England never could. Once she'd turned seventeen, there was no more need of the governess, but she was retained as a traveling companion to maintain etiquette and decorum. It had been a fantastic existence, and since they only spent about four months of the year in London, it was the perfect life for her.

But ever since he passed, the excitement had dimmed and left her with a huge hole where nothing but sadness and loneliness existed.

With every item Charity removed from a medium-sized packing crate, the more she missed her father. He was the type of man whose presence filled a room, and with a jolly laugh and a salt-and-pepper beard, people couldn't help but find him interesting. Especially once he started telling tales from his travels.

Unfortunately, his brother—her uncle—would arrive in London to take over the business or sell it as he saw fit. That is what her father had set out in his will. Did he not trust her to keep the business running, or did he consider that too scandalous for a woman of her station? She didn't know, but every time she thought about it, annoyance would rise in a hot tide. The future of the shop was something they hadn't discussed between them, possibly because there was always so much to do. When he passed, his solicitor had delivered a letter to her with a copy of the will saying she was meant for better things, brighter things than selling items with questionable provenance and taking in the same.

That had been it. No more personal notes or words, just legal things she needed to be aware of and the location of some coin he'd hidden in the townhouse. Even now, she still didn't understand why he hadn't left her the shop or at least some of the pieces therein. Hadn't she been on all his digs and most of his forays into bazaars and markets around the world? Hadn't she served as his secretary for years during those travels and had catalogued his inventory, kept it updated?

It made no sense, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

After she'd taken a leather pouch from the packing crate, she opened it and delicate bracelets made of coral and blue faience tumbled into her palm. "Oh, Papa, you would have liked to see these pretties." In all her thirty-one years of life, the most beautiful objects were still the ones that came out of Egypt. There was something about them that never failed to capture her heart.

November 1809

Cairo, Egypt

"Isn't this life better than balls and dancing, Cherry?" her father asked as he looked up from a basket of assorted bits and bobs in a market stall. "If you had wished for a Come Out Season, I would have given you that, of course, but digging through tombs and combing through outdoor markets is quite grand too."

Charity smiled, for he only called her Cherry when he was in a good humor. "You are quite adorable for a great bear of a father." But that was what made him wonderful. He was big and protective, and he made everyone around him think something lovely was coming just around the corner. "I wouldn't trade this life for anything other. You know I'm not the type to linger in society merely to waste time."

Though, if she were honest with herself, she did mourn the opportunity of ordering and then wearing fancy gowns or attending a ball or two merely to watch members of the beau monde do the pretty, but it wasn't vital that she have that as part of her own life.

Except for the gowns. She did adore reading about the changing fashions and how expensive fabrics felt against the skin.

"My girl, I fear you'll need to venture into that quagmire eventually if you wish to marry well." He examined a statuette, holding it this way and that to watch the play of shadows and light over it while the owner of the stall watched them like a hawk with rodents in a field.

"Perhaps I don't wish to marry, and if I do, who says it needs to be to a well-off man?" There were so many pretty things, not only in this stall, but in many others within the network of the bizarre. Her father was a gentleman, but he didn't claim any royal roots or blood. He'd made a name for himself importing fine silks and expensive teas, which had gained him friends in high places. Those connections had permitted him entry into many parts of the ton where others might not be able to tread.

"Every girl wishes to marry, poppet. And you're only two and twenty, there's plenty of time for you to change your mindset. No shame in wanting a man, though." He put the statuette in a basket and then moved on to examine a random canopic jar that was by itself instead of a grouping of others. "You'll need someone to take care of you once I'm gone."

Charity frowned. "Pish posh, Papa. That won't be for quite a long time." Not wishing to dive into too deep a conversation when listening ears were everywhere, she examined a lady's fan that had Grecian designs and a Mother of Pearl handle. It was a lovely piece, but remarkably out of place in Cairo. Perhaps it had been a trade for something else. "You are quite hale and hardy yet. I have plenty of time to decide where I want my life to go."

"Of course, duck, but it is something to keep in mind." He put the canopic jar back on a table and then moved on to inspect the contents of a large reed basket. "You are far too special to waste on a street hawker or a brick layer. Your mama was the daughter of a granddaughter of baron, remember. You can be as good as any of those nobs in the beau monde ."

"That remains to be seen, but I appreciate the compliment." She drew her fingertips along the side of an urn that still retained bits of red and gold paint. It was an exquisite piece, and she wondered how much the shop owner wanted for it. The fly in the ointment? The man refused to haggle or even speak to women. "Papa, see if you can buy this urn, please. I rather like it."

"I absolutely will."

"Thank you. I fancy it for my bedroom once we return to England in the summer." Silence reigned in the shop as they both continued to sift through the erratic displays for the real gems. "Just so you know, I hope I never have an ordinary existence. I don't want the life of a lady of leisure. I couldn't imagine not having anything to occupy my time except painting watercolors or doing embroidery." The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

"No, you weren't made for social calls or garden parties, and that is a good thing." He flashed her a grin. "No offense to your mama, God rest her soul. She wanted you to be a lady, but I think you have more to offer the world."

"I think so too."

"Ah, now this you can have good from immediately." Her father pulled a cat pendant from basket of other such necklaces. Made of green faience it depicted the head and shoulders of a panther, goddess Bastet. Perhaps an inch in height, it hung from a thin strip of leather but was lovely in the sunlight. "This is a gift for you from me. I have always believed you have many of Bastet's best traits."

"You are so sweet, Papa. Thank you." Charity took the pendant from him and immediately slipped it around her neck.

"Never change, my girl."

"I don't plan on it". She went on to look at other things and spent a fair amount of time browsing through the stall. When next she glanced at her father, he was hunched over something he'd found in an ancient hexagonal-shaped box with cracked paint on the lid. "What is that?"

"I found disappointment, that's what." He shook his head. "Nothing at all, really."

It was odd that he didn't explain to her what the item was. "Some miscategorized piece of pottery, then?" When she came near and tried to peek around his shoulder, he quickly snapped the box closed .

"No, of course not. Merely some beads of coral and glass. We can probably string them for bracelets later. Sell them for a song once we're back in London."

Though she eyed him askance, she said nothing. Perhaps he was distracted by all the choices in the stall. No matter, he would buy the urn for her and then they would move on to the next stall where she hoped to secure a head scarf.

Present day

Honestly, now that Charity thought of it, she'd never seen that box or its alleged contents again. Had he sold it? They'd never strung beads into bracelets, so she had no idea what had become of it. One thing was certain, the box and the beads weren't in the shop.

Not that it mattered, but it would have been a lovely keepsake.

When the bell over the door cheerfully rang, she glanced up from the packing crate.

"I'm sorry but the shop is closed and has been for quite some time because the owner is deceased." Her chest tightened with grief as she spoke the words, for the time just hadn't passed as quickly as she'd thought.

"I've got business here regardless," the man said as he entered the room and then proceeded to draw the canvas blinds over the front window. Then he pulled the door closed.

The cheek of him! "I truly apologize, but the shop is closed." She frowned at the man. There was nothing to differentiate him from anyone else. If he was within a crowd, he'd be immediately forgotten and dismissed. "You must leave."

"I have much different plans, I'm afraid." Even his voice was nothing special. There was nothing memorable about him. Did he know that?

With her hands still in the packing crate, she rooted about in the straw for something she could use as a weapon if needed. "You'll need to enact them somewhere else. As I said, this shop is closed."

"It matters not, for I don't care about the shop, but I will demand that you assist me."

She couldn't imagine why he wanted her help, and she didn't care. "And if I don't?"

"Then this could be a very sticky wicket for you, Miss Maitland."

The way the man said that and the way his dark eyes looked far too dead and menacing for her peace of mind. Fear twisted down her spine. Her fingers closed around a tall, slim statue of Anubis. It would have to do. "What do you want? "

"A tiara." As he spoke, he came toward her with slow, measured steps.

Resting her free hand on the edge of the packing crate, Charity watched him. "Well, we have a handful of tiaras dating back to the Terror, and one that might be from a member of Queen Charlotte's court, but I haven't verified its provenance yet. As I said, the shop is closed and will be until my uncle arrives in London."

"You stupid woman, I am not searching for a usual tiara." With even movements, he pulled a pistol from behind his back. Had it been stuffed in the waist of his breeches? She didn't know anything about such weapons. When he lowered the nose at her heart, she bit down on the lower lip to keep from whimpering. "The piece that I want is Egyptian in origin, and your father was the last man to own it."

"Ah." She couldn't keep her gaze from the nose of the pistol. With the window shaded and the door closed, no one on the street could see she was in peril. "I don't know what you mean. Perhaps if you describe the tiara it might help me remember." At least if he kept talking it would give her an opportunity to plan her escape, for she couldn't run up the stairs to the rooms above the shop. They were only for storage and there was no direct access to the roof. The only way she had was through the front door.

And he was in the way.

"I was told this was an easy job." He huffed and slightly lowered the pistol.

"Then you or whomever employed you doesn't know me well." Wrapping her fingers more firmly around the Anubis statue, she slowly drew it up and out of the packing crate as if she were continuing her work.

"It was set in silver with several alternating rows of diamonds of various sizes and shapes. At the top were at least twenty larger diamonds." He listed off the details as if they could be categorized on a list. And he sounded quite bored with it. "It is rumored to have once belonged to Queen Twosret—"

"Tawosret or even Tausret if you must," Charity interrupted, for she had learned much of the history of ancient Egypt from her father.

The man huffed. "She was the last known ruler and the final Pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty."

"No, she ruled in the Nineteenth Dynasty." She shook her head. "Wherever you obtained your information, I rather think it's suspect."

"Regardless, no one knows where exactly her tomb is."

"Well, there is some speculation that it is somewhere in the King's Valley. If she was truly a granddaughter of Ramses II, then it goes to reason he granted the request— "

"I don't care!" Once more the man leveled the nose of his pistol at her. "The provenance of the tiara is said to have come from a tomb robber within the past twenty years. It was taken eventually by an Englishman who claimed it was stolen from him shortly before he left Egypt."

"What happened to it after that?" Despite her perilous situation, she was caught up in the story.

"I don't know. I am not a history scholar." He gestured with the pistol. "But if that thief needed to unload a relic quickly, it is possible it found its way into a market."

"Then it didn't look as you've described. Even a nodcock would recognize diamonds."

"Be that as it may, I have been told the last man to own the piece in question was your father. So where the hell is the tiara?"

"I would have no idea. I would have remembered seeing such a piece." And her father had certainly never talked about such a thing.

"I don't believe you."

"Well, too bad. This is the truth. Now, I've answered your questions. Get the hell out of my father's shop."

"I don't think so, for you are coming with me until we find the tiara." When he reached out a hand to grab her, Charity sprang away from the table holding the packing crate.

She brandished the Anubis statue as if it were a sword. "If you don't leave this instant, I'm going to scream and call for a constable." And she prayed that one would be nearby when she needed him. They weren't exactly reliable. With an apologetic glance at the black and gold statue, she lunged at the intruder.

"Fool woman, you won't have the chance, and neither will this attempt go well."

Seconds later, they grappled for dominance of the statue. Charity held on for as long as she could, but in the end, the stranger was stronger. He wrenched it from her hand and then threw it against the far wall, where it broke into a few pieces.

"That was a priceless relic, you great oaf!" Without thinking, she flew at him in a rage.

Bang!

The sound of the pistol report was nearly deafening in the small space. She had no idea what happened next or how, but there was a burning pain in the middle of her left ribcage, and when she glanced down, she gasped, for small traces of blood had seeped through her dress of dyed gray lawn.

"Ow…" Never had she been shot or even had come close to any sort of violence, but seeing the blood on her dress and then on her hand when she pressed that appendage to the wound made her slightly lightheaded. Slowly, she sank toward the floor. "You shot me. "

Suddenly, everything came into sharp focus, and icy fear poured into her chest.

I'm truly in trouble.

"Next time I'll send you off this mortal coil," the man snarled as he put his free hand into her hair and yanked her upward.

Pain crawled along her scalp and through her head. This time, she let out a cry and tried to bat him away, but he didn't release his grip until she'd gained her footing. "Let me go." Tears welled in her eyes; her stomach knotted in terror.

Why was any of this happening?

"Not until you locate that damned tiara. As much as you are afraid of me, I'm more terrified of the person who issued my orders." He slipped a hand around the upper portion of her right arm and then marched her out of the shop. Once they stood on the pavement, he slammed the door behind him.

"I need to lock the door," Charity protested as she tried to squirm away from him.

"No time. If the shop is robbed, that is your fault." Without another word, he half-pulled half-dragged her toward a closed carriage that waited at the curb.

Dear God, what is going to become of me?