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grip. Despite his words to Beatrix earlier today, he hadn’t come all this way to watch her marry some other man. God, he couldn’t think of a more dreadful prospect. No, he wasn’t here because of her at all, and unless she was standing right in front of him, he had no cause to think of her. What he ought to be thinking about was Paul and how to persuade his oldest friend to loan him twenty thousand pounds.
    He had to find a way. Even after the British Museum paid for the antiquities he’d brought with him, it wouldn’t be enough to fund the excavation for the next twelve months. His own inheritance was nearly gone, and he hoped Paul would either loan him the funds or sponsor the excavation for the coming year. That would be enough time for him to finally uncover what he’d been digging in the Valley of the Kings for almost six years to find: the tomb of Tutankhamen, a tomb only he, Sir Edmund, and Howard Carter even believed existed.
    He recalled the disdain in Beatrix’s voice when she’d mentioned his work, and it galled him that she knew he’d spent his entire inheritance without finding much more than pottery shards. Oh, they’d discovered plenty of artifacts—tablets of hieroglyphs, cylinder seals, a few bits of lapis and gold, plenty of sarcophagi containing mummified remains. All these were valuable finds, of course, important to science and to him as an archaeologist, but they weren’t the reason he’d gone to Egypt. They weren’t Tutankhamen.
    Tut was there, though. Sir Edmund had unearthed the first evidence of that seven years ago—only a vague mention on a clay tablet, but Tut was down there somewhere, and he intended to find that Boy King before another year went by.
    He knew his choice to follow his dream defied all Beatrix’s notions of duty, tradition, and even common sense. At this moment, she was probably congratulating herself on her escape, applauding herself for abandoning him in favor of a more successful, more important man. She had always humored his fascination with Egypt and archaeology, but she’d never really shared it.
    He closed his eyes and tried to conjure the delicate sweetness of gardenias, working at it until that fragrance seemed as real now as it had a short time ago on the Stafford Road, as real as the heady fragrance that drifted through his bedroom window from the courtyard at home every night in February.
    The sound of footsteps along the corridor broke into Will’s speculations, and he hastily shoved the crumpled bit of newspaper back into his pocket. He glanced up as the rosy-faced, round little Mrs. Gudgeon appeared in the doorway with a silver tray containing a bottle of amber liquid, a glass, and a siphon—all the necessary accoutrements of Will’s preferred medical prescription.
    “Ah,” he said, gratified by such a welcome sight. “At last.”
    “Sorry, sir. Someone has come to call, and with the Americans in the north and with most of the staff on board wages, I had to answer the door myself when the bell went.”
    “Callers already?” That surprised him. English country life was less formal than in town, but if he remembered the proper etiquette at all, it was his responsibility to call on others first, since he was the one arriving after a long absence. He became even more surprised when informed of the identity of his visitor.
    “It’s Lady Beatrix, sir. I’ve put her in the drawing room.”
    “Beatrix?” Will groaned. Devil take it, did she intend to turn up every time his thoughts wandered in her direction? “What on earth does she want?”
    “She’s come to inquire about the state of your injuries.”
    Gudgeon might believe that, but he had no illusions that Beatrix gave two straws about his injuries. Besides, if she had, she’d simply have asked Gudgeon, left a card, and been on her way. “She came alone?” he asked, wondering if he’d imagined the housekeeper’s use of the singular pronoun. “Her aunt isn’t with her? Or some