Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cairo, February 1893
Seated in an elegant restaurant at Shepheard’s Hotel, Benedict stared across the table at the man who’d long been his most accomplished—and most antagonizing—competitor. Gavin Stanwyck was perhaps the one man in Cairo who was as arrogant and driven as he was.
He hadn’t expected to encounter Stanwyck in the city, and he damned well hadn’t anticipated breaking bread with him. Stanwyck had arranged the meeting for reasons that remained a mystery.
Benedict took a drink of his whisky as Stanwyck seated himself in a cane-back chair. Behind his spectacles, Stanwyck appraised Benedict like a wolf sizing up a rival predator. He was a clever one. There was no denying that. The man wore his intellect like a blasted medal from the queen.
In the years of their acquaintance, Benedict had faced the cool assessment in Stanwyck’s gaze on more than one occasion. But now, something was different in his manner. Benedict couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But somehow, Stanwyck had changed. Not that the man was any less arrogant. Benedict doubted that anything could tamp that down. But the drive to prove himself superior to his peers in the field had diminished. Stanwyck appeared more content. More at ease with his life.
Of course, that might have something to do with the blonde beauty he’d wed several months before Benedict had last returned to London. Now expecting their first child, Sophie Atherton Stanwyck had opted to remain in London during Stanwyck’s latest venture.
“I’m heading back to England in a day,” Stanwyck said, lifting his tumbler to his lips and taking a drink. “It’s been too long since I’ve been home.”
Home. The word plowed into him like a bull on a rampage. When had he ever been truly home? Aside from the nights he’d spent with Alexandra in his arms, the most joy he’d ever experienced was during those times when he’d been a guest at the Quinns’ rambling, eclectic country home. Those holidays he’d spent with his schoolmate Jeremy and his family had been among the most pleasant days of his life. He’d stolen away with Alexandra, savoring every moment with her as each learned the meaning of passion and desire.
And love.
God above, he’d loved her. There would never be another in his life like Alexandra.
Never.
And he’d thrown it all away.
Not once. But twice.
Bugger it, he was a fool.
“So, Marlsbrook, I hear you’ve made a major find,” Stanwyck said, drawing Benedict back to the present. “Your client must be very pleased.”
“This cache is not going to a client,” Benedict said. He downed what little was left of his whisky and placed the glass on the table. “The Egyptian authorities are taking command of the relics. They’ll be placed in a museum, where they belong.”
Stanwyck’s brows hiked. “A museum? I must confess this comes as a shock. I was not aware you’d put your profiteering behind you.”
Benedict shrugged. “I cannot say it is in my past. But this find was different. It is a highly significant contribution to the study of the ancient culture.”
“I never thought I’d live to say this, but I am impressed.” Stanwyck leaned back in his chair, regarding Benedict over steepled fingers. “Is Miss Quinn aware of the find—and its disposition?”
“I have not been in communication with her.” Benedict drummed his fingers against the table. Damn the man for bringing Alexandra into the conversation. He didn’t want to think about her now. He was well aware of what he’d lost, of what he’d left behind like a bumbling oaf.
“I shall be sure to inform her.”
“I cannot imagine she wants to hear so much as a syllable about me. We did not part on the best of terms.”
Stanwyck nodded. “So I’ve heard.”
“What else have you heard?” Benedict asked. “Why did you wish to meet?”
He smiled, a wry, humorless slant of his mouth. “Nothing like cutting to the chase, eh, Marlsbrook?”
“Stanwyck, I don’t have all day. What do you want?”
“I have a proposition—one I believe you may find to your interest.”
“And what might that be?”
“Alexandra provided me with the map to the tomb. Utilizing the document in conjunction with the Pharaoh’s Sun, I am confident I can locate the treasure.”
“I’m not surprised she trusted the map to you,” Benedict said. “I must commend her judgment. Despite being an arrogant arse, you possess an annoying sense of integrity.”
“I suppose I shall take that as a compliment.” Stanwyck affected a bland expression. “In any case, as my wife is, as they say, heavy with child, I will not be embarking on the expedition until early next year. The preparations will be extensive, as I’m sure you know.”
“Of course,” Benedict said.
“The expedition requires a leader, one who’s not going to be concerned with a wife and babe at home in London. I know of no one more qualified to take charge of this endeavor than you. You would receive full credit for your contribution.”
Stanwyck spoke so matter-of-factly, one might be tempted to believe he did not know of Benedict’s relationship with Alexandra. However, the man was not in the dark. Sophie was like a sister to Jennie and Alexandra. Word had gotten to Stanwyck. What in hellfire was his ultimate objective?
“Why did you really come here tonight, Stanwyck?”
“You question my motives?”
“I presume you know of my history with Alexandra. Our relationship was not clandestine.”
Stanwyck gave a nod. “Sophie has spoken of it, and as you mention, it has been no secret in London.” His eyes narrowed, and his gaze settled on Benedict’s chin. “By God, there it is.”
“There what is?” Benedict asked, even as his finger idly traced the thumbnail-wide ridge on his chin.
“You know what I’m talking about—the infamous scar.” Stanwyck’s half grin seemed surprisingly sincere. “I must commend Jeremy on his right hook. Bugger it, I’d bet that ring of his hurt like the bloody devil.”
Benedict rubbed his chin. Beneath a day’s growth of stubble, the puckered mark left behind by Jeremy Quinn’s ring provided a permanent reminder of the second worst decision he’d ever made in his life. Leaving Alexandra to seek his fortune had been foolish. But walking away after he’d had a second chance at loving her was blasted idiotic. God above, he was a daft arse.
“I had it coming,” he said. “How is she?”
“She’s gone on with her life.” Stanwyck drummed his fingers against the table. “Miss Quinn is a strong woman. At first glance, one might overlook her spirit and her wit, but she’s a rare jewel. In some ways, she reminds me of my Sophie.”
“I’d never taken you for the marrying kind,” Benedict said.
“The marrying kind?” Stanwyck chuckled, and then, his expression turned serious. “I doubt anyone has ever described me in those terms, including my darling wife. There was a time when I would’ve laughed at anyone who suggested I’d speak my vows and embrace a life outside of exploration. When I met Sophie, I damned near drove her away. Like a damned fool, I’d convinced myself that I was not worthy of a woman like her. Fortunately for me, I came to my senses before she wanted no part of me.”
“She is a beautiful woman. You’re a lucky man.”
Stanwyck leaned back in his chair. “You’ll get no argument from me. When I look at her now, I thank God I did not succumb to the doubt that plagued me—the sense that I did not deserve her—and walk away. For some reason I still haven’t quite figured out, she believed in me. A rare gift, indeed.”
A rare gift. The words echoed in Benedict’s thoughts. Alex believed in him. She’d expressed that in her words, her kiss, her touch. He’d brought her little but pain, but when she’d looked at him with love lighting those gorgeous eyes of hers, her belief in him had shone bright.
He shifted his thoughts back to Stanwyck and his bride. “Does your wife’s alliance with Colton’s agency trouble you?”
“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. At her core, Sophie relishes a challenge, the more daring the better. Of course, now that she is going to be a mother, she will undertake investigations of a less taxing nature. But I cannot imagine she will be content if she isn’t looking into some mystery or other.” Stanwyck’s smile was genuine. “In any case, I did not come here to discuss the ladies. Miss Quinn is well aware of my intention to request that you head the team. As a matter of fact, she is the one who suggested I make the inquiry.”
The admission caught him off guard. “She did?”
“She was adamant that you were the best man for the job. So, Marlsbrook, will you lead the expedition?”
Benedict did not hesitate in his response. “Allow me to be blunt—I want no part of the search for that damnable tomb. Good men died because of a sodding legend. If a treasure is there, it’s not for me to find.”
“Those men did not die because of the hunt for the tomb. They died because of one man’s greed and duplicity.”
“Stockwell’s son despised me. I may not have killed those men who fell victim to his hatred. But I played a part, no matter how unwitting it may have been.”
Stanwyck finished off his drink. “You let that bastard put the responsibility on you? I thought you had a better head on your shoulders than that.”
“Alexandra was nearly killed because he wanted to use her to enact vengeance against me.” Benedict pulled in a low breath. The memory of Stockwell’s gun aimed at her would haunt him to the end of his days. “He hurt her before I could stop him.”
“By hellfire, you do blame yourself.” Stanwyck eyed him skeptically. “You’re a man of reason. You know better than to count yourself responsible. God above, man, you killed the snake. You took his scheming, cowardly heart out of this world. You saved her, whether you want to admit it or not.”
“And what if I did?” Benedict pounded a fist against the table, rattling the glasses. “It’s of no consequence now. After what I’ve done—after I left her again, like a bloody fool—she wants no part of me. I’m quite sure of that.”
“I suppose you’re right. After all, she is doing quite well for herself. Are you aware that she’s been asked to present at the Royal Symposium for Egyptian Exploration?”
“I’ve been in Egypt for months. As such, I haven’t been privy to the latest news of London’s archaeology enthusiasts.”
Stanwyck handed him a slip of paper. Benedict recognized the address penned in a precise hand. “If you change your mind, you can reach me at the London office. I would suggest you give the matter some thought.” He rose and headed to the door. Turning, he added, “Just remember, Marlsbrook, some treasures are worth the risk.”
Returning to his quarters within the hotel, Benedict cast off his jacket and waistcoat and sprawled over the bed. He stared at the ceiling, mindlessly watching the reflection of the sun against the wall. It would be dark soon enough.
His gaze lit on the folded rectangle of paper he’d tossed on the side table. A courier had brought the handwritten communique the night before. After nearly a year, an agent had located a buyer for the Amulet of Bastet. An American oil baron had made a bid for the rendering of the ancient goddess. The statue could fit in his palm, but the antiquity would bring him more blunt than even he’d anticipated. With that money, he would never again have to concern himself with the acquisition of funds. He’d be a wealthy man. Perhaps not in the league of an industrialist who’d done whatever it took to make his fortune. But the sale of the amulet would provide funds that would afford him a comfortable life for the rest of his days.
What did it matter that the artifact would be sitting in a gilded case in some millionaire’s New York estate? In truth, the amulet was little more than a golden trinket. The image of the cat goddess was unique. But ultimately, of little historical significance.
He pictured Alex’s face, imagining the censure that would dim her soft smile when she learned of the bargain. Bugger it, what did it matter? He pounded a fist against the headboard. The price the collector was willing to pay was the only thing that mattered—wasn’t it?
The sale of the amulet was the last piece in his plan. After the transaction was complete, he would never again worry about money.
In the last three months, he’d amassed a sizeable collection of relics that would be preserved for the sake of culture and history. The expedition had been a smashing success. Even Stanwyck, the most arrogant of his competitors, had been forced to admit he was impressed by the find.
An observer might believe these events a cause for celebration. By all rights, he should be enjoying the fruits of his success.
Instead, he was alone, lying on rumpled sheets in a hotel room, half-drunk and fully disgusted with his own lack of backbone.
How the hell had he’d gotten to this point?
He wasn’t a coward. Not in the conventional sense, at least. He’d willingly walked into a situation where his adversary wanted him dead. He would’ve given his life that night if it had meant Alexandra would live to see another dawn. She was a woman who was worth fighting for.
He would have died to save her.
So why hadn’t he stayed with her? What was it that kept him running, a fool who couldn’t muster the courage to slay his own doubts?
He threw his arm over his eyes, as if that would block out the torment of his own thoughts.
Picturing her in his mind’s eye, he felt an ache in the region of his heart. God above, he wanted her here. At his side. Close enough to caress the satin of her skin, to press a kiss to her mouth as she welcomed his touch.
Welcomed his love.
The prospect of imminent death heightens emotional response.
His words haunted him. She’d come to him with vivid hope in her eyes, the tiny quiver in her voice betraying her nervousness at taking the initiative.
She loved him.
She’d wanted to embark on a life with him, forging a partnership they would infuse with love, passion, and tenderness.
And how had he responded? Like a cruel arse.
He’d offered a verbal slap in the face. His cold cynicism had cut her to the core.
What a bastard he was.
He’d wounded her deeply. Her face had clearly betrayed her pain. She was not practiced at hiding her emotions, as he was.
He’d cultivated that dubious skill for so long, since he’d been a boy enduring his father’s relentless brutality, both physical and verbal. The memories careened over him, like a nightmare that haunted him year after year.
An image of his mother’s face flashed in his thoughts. She bore the marks his father had inflicted upon her on that horrible night when she’d put herself in Benedict’s place.
It should have been him. He should have borne the brunt of his father’s anger.
How many times had she protected him from the rage? He’d lost count of the times she’d powdered over the bruises on her cheeks, as if she could actually hide them.
He’d wanted so badly to protect her. Later, once he’d grown into a man, he’d towered over his father. He’d packed on muscle. He’d gained strength. He would have protected his mum from the man who alternated between loving words and heartless violence.
His father’s death had ended that nightmare.
And began another—the dire impact of his father’s gambling and foolish business decisions had soon become evident. Benedict had needed funds. Damned if he would see his mother treated as a pauper after all she’d endured.
He’d done what he had to do.
Even if it meant breaking Alexandra’s heart.
Could he ever forgive himself for walking away from their love, bloody fool that he was?
How long could he go on pretending he didn’t give a damn about what he’d lost?
He swung his legs off the bed and went to the sink, wet his hands, and splashed water on his face. In the waning light, his reflection stared back at him, a stranger whose eyes betrayed his weariness and the ache in his heart.
Memories of Alexandra filled his thoughts. He missed her so—everything about her. The temptation in her sparkling amber eyes. The seductive curves of her lithe, lovely body. The honesty in her expression that made it impossible for her to bluff at cards. The way her eyes flashed daggers at him when his arrogance vexed her.
He wanted her—the woman, the perfections and imperfections—more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.
Long from now, when he was an old man and their hair had turned to silver, she would remain the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
He’d been such a fool.
He’d lost her.
He scrubbed a hand over his bristle-covered jaw. It was too late.
Wasn’t it?
No. As long as they both possessed breath in their bodies and their hearts still beat, it would not be too late.
He would win her love again.
How could he live with himself if he didn’t go after her—if he didn’t convince her to give them another chance?
He loved her. With every breath. With every beat of his heart. And he wanted to be by her side.
And it was high time she knew it.