possess my collection.”
Well, questioned answered . . . or not. One thing was clear though, Nate’s aversion to taking on a case for the Earl of Brodford had been unfounded. The man was clearly more interested in the past—more specifically, the ancient past—than social standings.
Not that Nate considered forgiving Lawson for foisting the case on him. Besides, he wagered the earl would ultimately choose his lofty title over the fellowship of a commoner.
“Other than the Shabti—”Nate hoped he’d recalled the proper word—“there are four other items missing?”
The earl nodded.
“And, other than the public as a whole, there isn’t anyone who has expressed a particular interest in the objects stolen?”
“Not a one.”
Nate held in the groan threatening to push past his lips. With no leads, and no actual evidence, the case appeared nowhere near solvable. At least the thefts had occurred at Brodford’s country estate and far from London. Thus decreasing the chance Nate would stumble across anyone who knew of his connection to the late Duke of Wesbrook.
“If you have no objection, I would like the force to track the stolen artifacts. We know of a few individuals who trade exclusively in things of this nature. Most likely the thief offloaded the items soon after pilfering them.”
Brodford’s eyes turned sharp and Nate wondered if he’d underestimated the man’s aptitude. “What do you need from me?”
The earl’s willingness to assist also baffled Nate. “I could use a written description of the stolen pieces.”
“I’ll have it to you by dinner.”
Everything settled, Nate was about to excuse himself to take a look about the perimeter of the house when a soft gasp from the doorway drew his attention. He scowled at what he found.
Given the young woman’s quality of gown and pristine appearance, Nate would guess Brodford’s daughter had made her entrance. As she stood by the door with an air of propriety, he couldn’t help but liken her to a spoiled princess.
An attractive princess, but spoiled nonetheless.
The source of her appeal was subtle. Muted auburn hair set to flame with highlights of crimson perched atop a head he doubted would reach his shoulder. He wondered if even she realized her allure. In fact, if not for the pull of her turquoise eyes gazing at him, he might have overlooked it himself.
He had a gut feeling the job had just become insufferable.
“Sorry, Papa, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Even the soft velvet of her voice held an enticing promise. Luckily, he’d long ago learned the only promise a proper lady would give him was an eventual dismissal.
“Annabel, dear, impeccable timing. There is someone I want you to meet.”
Her slight figure crossed the room to her father’s side. With each step, her gown shifted and teased him with the faint outline of her delicate curves. A lesser man might have passed over the sweetness confined in her petite frame. Barring her exalted status, Nate could possibly find her agreeable.
“Annabel, this is Mr. Frederickson. The Runner I called for.”
“But Papa—”
“Not another word, dear. We’ve had this discussion and as much as I respect your opinion, I will not budge on this.”
The side conversation between father and daughter was cryptic but it didn’t take a genius to know Brodford’s daughter objected to his assistance.
“Mr. Frederickson, my daughter, Annabel.”
Brodford made the introduction as if presenting his daughter to someone as common as a Bow Street Runner—an illegitimate one at that—was an everyday occurrence. Lady Annabel, on the other hand, did nothing but turn her dainty nose up at him—or would have if her nose wasn't at the same level as his chest.
All affirming his assessment of a spoiled princess.
However, he’d met her kind before and knew how to handle her superior attitude. Nothing ruffled an overindulged lady’s feathers more than being ignored.
He didn’t approach but
Well, questioned answered . . . or not. One thing was clear though, Nate’s aversion to taking on a case for the Earl of Brodford had been unfounded. The man was clearly more interested in the past—more specifically, the ancient past—than social standings.
Not that Nate considered forgiving Lawson for foisting the case on him. Besides, he wagered the earl would ultimately choose his lofty title over the fellowship of a commoner.
“Other than the Shabti—”Nate hoped he’d recalled the proper word—“there are four other items missing?”
The earl nodded.
“And, other than the public as a whole, there isn’t anyone who has expressed a particular interest in the objects stolen?”
“Not a one.”
Nate held in the groan threatening to push past his lips. With no leads, and no actual evidence, the case appeared nowhere near solvable. At least the thefts had occurred at Brodford’s country estate and far from London. Thus decreasing the chance Nate would stumble across anyone who knew of his connection to the late Duke of Wesbrook.
“If you have no objection, I would like the force to track the stolen artifacts. We know of a few individuals who trade exclusively in things of this nature. Most likely the thief offloaded the items soon after pilfering them.”
Brodford’s eyes turned sharp and Nate wondered if he’d underestimated the man’s aptitude. “What do you need from me?”
The earl’s willingness to assist also baffled Nate. “I could use a written description of the stolen pieces.”
“I’ll have it to you by dinner.”
Everything settled, Nate was about to excuse himself to take a look about the perimeter of the house when a soft gasp from the doorway drew his attention. He scowled at what he found.
Given the young woman’s quality of gown and pristine appearance, Nate would guess Brodford’s daughter had made her entrance. As she stood by the door with an air of propriety, he couldn’t help but liken her to a spoiled princess.
An attractive princess, but spoiled nonetheless.
The source of her appeal was subtle. Muted auburn hair set to flame with highlights of crimson perched atop a head he doubted would reach his shoulder. He wondered if even she realized her allure. In fact, if not for the pull of her turquoise eyes gazing at him, he might have overlooked it himself.
He had a gut feeling the job had just become insufferable.
“Sorry, Papa, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Even the soft velvet of her voice held an enticing promise. Luckily, he’d long ago learned the only promise a proper lady would give him was an eventual dismissal.
“Annabel, dear, impeccable timing. There is someone I want you to meet.”
Her slight figure crossed the room to her father’s side. With each step, her gown shifted and teased him with the faint outline of her delicate curves. A lesser man might have passed over the sweetness confined in her petite frame. Barring her exalted status, Nate could possibly find her agreeable.
“Annabel, this is Mr. Frederickson. The Runner I called for.”
“But Papa—”
“Not another word, dear. We’ve had this discussion and as much as I respect your opinion, I will not budge on this.”
The side conversation between father and daughter was cryptic but it didn’t take a genius to know Brodford’s daughter objected to his assistance.
“Mr. Frederickson, my daughter, Annabel.”
Brodford made the introduction as if presenting his daughter to someone as common as a Bow Street Runner—an illegitimate one at that—was an everyday occurrence. Lady Annabel, on the other hand, did nothing but turn her dainty nose up at him—or would have if her nose wasn't at the same level as his chest.
All affirming his assessment of a spoiled princess.
However, he’d met her kind before and knew how to handle her superior attitude. Nothing ruffled an overindulged lady’s feathers more than being ignored.
He didn’t approach but
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