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in 1801” on the left side and “Presented by King George III” on the right. Despite the curt description, the historical details were bloody. Both Lowther and Sebastian knew full well that after Napoleon returned from Egypt to France, his troops and scientists remained behind with their discovery, holding off British and Ottoman attacks for a further eighteen months. The French scholars swore they would prefer to burn their discoveries rather than turn them over to the hated enemy.
    â€œOur friend,” continued Sebastian, gesturing with an elegant motion to the artifact behind glass, “claims that the Stone was seized by the British from where it had been hidden in the back streets of Alexandria and then found its way to Britain aboard the captured French frigate HMS Egyptienne .”
    Lowther’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “All superfluous detail,” he said enigmatically. “What is more important is that he would like to continue the work Champollion began over two decades ago.” It was acknowledged that the orientalist Jean-Francois Champollion was credited as the principal translator of the Rosetta Stone.
    Sebastian sniffed his derision. “And what did we learn from the twenty paragraphs? In essence that the Stone speaks of a tax amnesty given to the temple priests of the day, restoring the tax privileges that they had traditionally enjoyed in more ancient times. Hardly the stuff of legend.” His voice trailed away as he glanced sharply at Lowther.
    Lowther smiled starkly. “Or so we are led to believe.”
    â€œThere is more, then?”
    â€œWhy else would our friend be so keen to have it in his possession?”
    Sebastian tapped a finger impatiently against the glass. His dark eyes were shadowed. “Therein lies the challenge. The situation may prove exceedingly untidy.”
    â€œOnly because you failed the first time,” Lowther said, each word hard as diamonds.
    â€œWhat is past, is past.” He gave a Gallic shrug, “We move on.”
    â€œIndeed,” said Lowther, a hand at his chin, contemplating what seemed to be an imaginary army arrayed in front of him. “Our next moves must be more strategic. That being said, the actress’s demise was a necessity—a tactic—as she knew too much.”
    Sebastian nodded. “And of course the method of dispatch was meant to be a reminder.”
    â€œOur friend delights in symmetry after all.” Fire and water, thought Lowther.
    â€œYet how can we be sure that the drowning will elicit Rushford’s interest?”
    â€œIt will,” reassured Lowther. “Because he was besotted with the Duchess of Taunton. Her death, and his guilt, eat at his soul.”
    Guilt and passion, thought Sebastian to himself, a powerful, eternally useful combination of emotions. “The Duchess was lamentably unstable. That she flaunted their affair with no thought to propriety or her position—” He paused. “It was not expected.”
    They both stared at the huge tablet in silence, aware that they had only a few more moments before they must exit the museum. Then Lowther said, “Our friend demands results. A fortnight is all he is willing to give.”
    â€œAlways impatient.” It was a careful observation. Neither man wished to elaborate further because the mention of their mutual friend, the impossibly reclusive and powerful Montagu Faron, always brought with it a measure of fear. And for good reason. Faron was never without his leather mask, shielding the world from the facial tremors that overtook him with unexpected ferocity. And yet, the man was seemingly indestructible, having escaped certain death by fire only one year earlier. And now with scars from the flames all over his body, there were whispers that the great man of science and reason had made a pact with the devil.
    â€œRevenge drives him and his relentless timetable,” continued Lowther