Despite the footman watching from the corridor, they kissed. Slowly. So deeply her insides clenched. This raw carnal need left them ravenous. If they were anywhere else, lust would consume them.
Run away with me, Christian!
They could be gone tonight.
But he would never leave his brothers.
You’re destined to be alone, Isabella.
Her mother said they’d carve the words on her headstone.
Fate conspired to make it so.
Eager to keep destiny at bay, she gripped his lapels, anchoring him to her mouth, silently begging him to chase away the demons.
A discreet cough from the doorway brought them both to their senses. Christian tore his mouth from hers, though the hazy look in his eyes said he was by no means finished.
Isabella forced herself to turn towards the door, expecting to find Mr Daventry standing like an angry Zeus, ready to bring the heavens hurtling down on top of them. She was shocked to find the distraught maid and no sign of the footman.
The woman checked the corridor before dashing into the dimly lit room. She grabbed Isabella’s arm. “I need your help, miss,” she pleaded, her face as white as her apron. “I need to leave this place but ain’t got the means to pay for lodgings.”
Isabella placed a calming hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “I, too, am short of funds, but I know someone who can help you.”
The maid jumped out of her skin when Christian spoke. “Why would you want to leave a perfectly good job? You’ve food and board. Comforts you’d miss if you found yourself on the streets.”
The woman hurried to peer around the jamb before returning. “The maids don’t stay here long, sir. Every two months, one runs away. It’s only a matter of time before it’s my turn to find out why.”
Isabella’s thoughts turned to the coroner’s assessment of the corpse on the mortuary slab. The victim was of Mediterranean descent. Most likely a servant abused by her master. A maid fleeing Bloomsbury Square might easily find herself at the museum at night.
The ghost had mentioned the artefacts by name.
The ghost had blood spots on her nightgown.
“Have any maids left recently?” Isabella did not describe the ghostly figure. In her current state of mind, this servant might say anything for a few coins.
“Sarah left three months ago. One minute she was here. The next, she was gone. No one has heard from her since. Oh, you must help me, miss. People don’t disappear.”
Isabella tried to remain rational. “Perhaps she’s gone to stay with family or taken another position.” It happened all the time. Servants rarely gave notice of an intention to flee. “She might have married.”
“She might be dead, miss.”
Isabella exchanged glances with Christian.
The entire case was based on a dead woman’s testimony. Had the person the curator spoke to mentioned Lord Oldman by name? Had she lied about the forgeries to gain the authorities’ attention? Why not run to the nearest police office instead?
They needed to question the curator again.
“Does Sarah hail from London?”
“No, from somewhere up north near the coast. It might be Scotland judging by her accent. I’ve never seen skin so white. And hair as light as silver threads. It must be the sea air.”
So, Sarah was not the woman in the mortuary.
“I heard her crying the night before she left, but the butler said the Egyptian ornaments are cursed.” She trembled as she glanced at the cabinet of small ushabti figurines. “He said I’d heard spirits from the underworld. Desperate souls begging to be set free.”
“What’s your name?” Christian asked.
“Nancy, sir. Nancy Jones.”
