Emmy braced herself as she was slid off the back of the cart. She prayed whoever was helping Franks wouldn’t drop her—not only would that be extremely painful, butthe game would most certainly be up if she spilled out of the sarcophagus. She swayed and bobbed, then her feet tilted upwards as she was carried up some steps, and then she was righted with a bump as the crate was, presumably, deposited on a table inside the museum.
The darkness lifted as Luc or Franks removed the outer lid of the crate. Pinpoints of light freckled her face.
“My goodness, that is extraordinary,” she heard Franks breathe. “I do believe it’s Middle Kingdom. Just look at that painted decoration!”
Emmy held her breath as something touched the lid of the sarcophagus, but Luc stepped in to avert disaster.
“If that’s all, sir, I’ll be goin’. Got myself an appointment wiv’ a laydee, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, no, of course,” Franks said distractedly. He bustled away from the case. “Here’s for your trouble. And my goodness, what time is it? I, too, am meeting a lady.”
“Ten to five, sir,” Luc said. “Sounds like we’d both best be off. Don’t do to keep a woman waitin’.”
“No, no, you’re quite right.” Franks gave one more longing sigh. “I suppose this can wait until morning.”
“That’s the spirit. Ain’t no dead ’gyptian more interesting than a handful o’ live muslin, now is there? Whatever poor bugger’s in there, he’ll still be dead tomorrow.” Luc cackled at his own joke, then turned it into an impressive fit of coughing. Emmy silently congratulated him on his performance. He really did sound as though he were a frail sixty-year-old cab driver with bad lungs.
With a wash of relief, she heard the scuffles and footfalls of the men fade away. A door clicked. She waited an extra few minutes, just to be sure she was alone, then pushed aside the lid and took a grateful gulp of cool, fresh air.
She was in.
Chapter 10.
After a brief glance around, Emmy deduced her location—the mysteriously named “dusting room,” beneath the northeast stairwell. It seemed to be a storeroom. A bizarre array of items in various stages of restoration sat on wooden benches and shelves. A glassy-eyed taxidermy zebra head gave her a reproachful glare as she stretched her arms above her head to relieve her cramps. She stuck her tongue out at it. At least she wasn’t stuffed and mounted on a shield.
Not yet, at least.
She climbed out of the box, glad that she was wearing her usual thieving attire of shirt, breeches, and stockings. She envied the men of this world; breeches were far more practical than acres of billowing skirts and petticoats.
Camille had designed the outfit. Emmy might be a thief, so practicality was tantamount, but there was no reason she could not also be stylish. According to Camille, black, while slimming, was “not at all the thing,” despitebeing a great favorite with highwaymen. Brown was not to be considered; “Not with your complexion, darling.”
So Emmy wore midnight blue for her nocturnal adventures. Dark enough to disappear into the shadows, flattering to dark hair and grey eyes. Father had approved, as had Luc, so Emmy had bitten back the sarcastic retort that nobody would care what she was wearing when they clapped her in irons and put a rope around her neck.
The one piece of Father’s advice Emmy had failed to follow was his moratorium on soap. He’d warned her to bathe only in hot water and to eschew powder and scent before a job, but Camille had disagreed. She said a woman was “as good as naked” if she left the house without perfume.
Emmy smiled in fond memory. For her sixteenth birthday, Camille had taken her to Floris, her favorite parfumier in St. James’s. She’d helped Emmy choose her own customized scent, a combination of peony, rose, neroli, and orchid. Emmy had felt so grown-up. She’d worn the same perfume ever since; each spray was an extra layer of invincibility, of feminine armor.
It was time to get to work.
A door led into Franks’s office and Emmy smiled in triumph as she spied the perfectly labelled row of cabinet keys mounted on the wall. She pocketed cabinet 4A—Rocks and Minerals.
Thieving was an odd profession, rather like being a soldier, she imagined. It consisted of long periods of boredom interspersed with brief moments of terrifying activity. She waited an extra ten minutes, just to be certain that Franks had really gone to meet Sally, and then untied the brown paper packet Camille had given her. She cracked open the door that led into the main wing of the museum and whistled.
“Brutus! Here, boy!”
The rhythmic click of canine claws scrabbling on polished wooden floor ensued, and Emmy kept her body behind the door, using it as a shield. Thus far, her acquaintance with Brutus had been conducted with the confidence-inducing iron bars of the museum’s garden railings between them.
A low growl made her insides curdle as the huge dog skidded around the corner. He was fearsome, some kind of hound, a Doberman perhaps? Black and tan, with pointy ears and a full complement of extremely sharp teeth. He looked like the jackal-headed deity painted on her sarcophagus.
Emmy wasn’t a fan of any dog larger than a dachshund. A dachshund she could outrun or escape by climbing on a chair. Brutus was a good seven stone of pure muscle. She doubted the door could stop him.
The beast stopped a few paces away and regarded her suspiciously.
“Hello, Brutus, my lovely,” she cooed. “It’s only me. Your friend Emmy. The one who brings you tasty presents.” She produced a strip of steak from her package and threw it toward the dog’s front paws. “Look what I’ve brought for you today.”
Brutus bent his head and sniffed the steak.
“I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” Emmy coaxed. “Of course you are. Men are always hungry.” At least, Luc always was.
