12

Thursday was Cécile's last day in London, and her impending departure had a deleterious effect on my household. Caesar and Brutus, who had become inexplicably fond of Berkeley Square, recoiled at the sight of their travel boxes and crawled beneath a large cabinet in the red drawing room from which they could not be coaxed, even with scraps from the previous evening's roast beef. Cook took this as a personal insult and stalked about belowstairs all morning in a state of high dudgeon. As a result, our luncheon was delayed, and I had no time at all to eat before leaving for the British Museum, where I hoped to meet my anonymous admirer.

As I walked towards Great Russell Street, it started to rain, but the drops amounted to little more than a mist that would do nothing to alleviate the claustrophobic humidity enveloping the city. I did not open my umbrella, using it instead as a walking stick, its metal point echoing the rhythm of my feet. My claim to Colin that I was near to unmasking my would-be innamorato had not been quite accurate. Other than placing the ad in the Times, I had done almost nothing to find him. Initially, I had thought I might ferret him out by baiting young gentlemen of my acquaintance, but that had been when I believed him to be nothing more than a creative suitor keen to take advantage of my interest in Greek. Now, however, knowing that he was responsible for the Marie Antoinette thefts, I believed it would take a great deal of persuasion to get him to reveal himself. My only real hope came from his romantic designs on me. Surely a gentleman in love would not wish to remain eternally incognito.

Once inside the museum, I left my umbrella in the hall and ducked through the rooms leading to the Southern Egyptian Gallery, which housed the Rosetta Stone. I meandered about, patiently reading the cards describing each object while I watched for any solitary gentlemen who lingered too long in front of the famous basalt tablet. No one came. I studied the sarcophagus of the queen of Amasis II, admired a statue of the god of the Nile, and pondered figures of the goddesses Bast and Sekhet. I watched a young man whisper something that made a young lady blush while her chaperone scrutinized an obelisk through spectacles that pinched her nose. I enjoyed a brief moment of anticipation when a well-dressed gentleman entered the room, pursued by a docent telling him that he must deposit his walking stick in the hall. He gave me a jaunty smile as he surrendered the stick, then left the room without so much as glancing at the Rosetta Stone.

The stone itself provided ample distraction for another quarter of an hour. After doing my best to read the Greek inscription on it, I turned my attention to the hieroglyphs and was entirely seduced by their elegant beauty. My fingers ached to try to draw them, and as I was longing for my sketchbook, a man approached me. My eyebrows shot up, then fell immediately as soon as I recognized him as the docent who had taken the gentleman's stick.

"Lady Ashton?" he asked. I nodded. "Forgive me for disturbing your reverie. This was left for you at the desk." He handed me a too-familiar envelope.

"Can you describe the gentleman who delivered it?"


"It was a young boy, madam, not a gentleman." I thanked him and crossed through the Central Egyptian Saloon to the Refreshment Room, notorious for its dreadful food, and sat down to a pot of tea no better than the café's reputation. The note, as I expected, began in Greek:



She is enrolled as my one goddess, whose beloved name I will mix and drink in unmixed wine. I could not help but smile. If nothing else, receiving these letters had done wonders for my sight-reading skills. He continued in English: