“So did Gavina. Why isn’t there a spread of photographs in a newspaper about that?”
“Hmm. In some very bohemian papers, there might be. So—you are not after the heiress?”
“No,” Jamie said emphatically.
“Ah.” Mac rubbed his head, staining the kerchief with a splotch of yellow paint. “I thought you’d come to ask my advice about how to court her.”
“Ha. I know how you court women. Arrive uninvited to their debut ball and elope with them that very night.”
A grin split Mac’s face. “It worked, laddie. You know it did. I now have a beautiful wife and three adorable children. Don’t tell Robbie I said that. He hates being called adorable.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Jamie said without amusement.
Mac studied him with sudden shrewdness. He could shift in an instant from careless barefoot artist to wise man with great insight who wouldn’t let Jamie get away with anything.
“You’re not usually bothered when you’re plastered across the newspapers,” Mac observed. “You laugh. Now you’re growling and bad-tempered. Why?”
Because Evie might see those photos and draw the wrong conclusion. She was already half-convinced he was smitten with Miss Carmichael. He did not want Evie to believe it, or she might not trust his intentions toward her. Jamie wanted her to trust him without doubt.
The article was not fair to Miss Carmichael either. She must be wondering who the devil was this unkempt Highlander the newspapers insisted on pairing her with.
“The photographer on the dock annoyed me, that’s all,” Jamie said. “Cheek of him.”
“I see.” Mac didn’t believe the explanation, but Jamie did not intend to elaborate. He didn’t need to—Gavina would sooner or later spread the tale of Evie at the Langham.
Interesting that the photographer chappie, who’d had a perfect opportunity to snap a shot of Jamie with Evie, hadn’t printed that. Because Evie was nobody, in the newspapers’ eyes. Bloody fools.
“What I came to ask you about is Greek pots,” Jamie said, returning to his purpose. “Or alabastrons. One in particular.”
Mac blinked. “Greek …”
“Antiquities. The black ones with red figures on them. Valuable, are they?”
Mac rested elbows on knees as he peered at Jamie. “Why the devil are you asking me about Greek pottery? I’m not an expert.”
“You dragged me to see them when I was younger,” Jamie said impatiently. “Went on about how important it was that I became steeped in art.”
“It is important. But I have cursory knowledge of Greek art. Let us say I wasn’t attentive in school.”
True, Mac had been a wild and carefree young man, running away as soon as he could to learn painting at the feet of Eduard Manet and Berthe Morisot.
“All right then, you will know someone who knows something.”
Mac’s eyes narrowed. “Are you going to tell me about your sudden fascination with Greek alabastrons?”
“I don’t believe I am. Not now, anyway.”
“Mmm.”
Mac continued to study him, but what Jamie liked about Uncle Mac was that he didn’t judge him. Uncle Cameron would growl and threaten until Jamie confessed, and Uncle Hart would pin him with a golden-eyed stare that would have Jamie either telling him everything or finding a sudden excuse to be elsewhere.
Mac assessed, but kept his thoughts to himself.
“I can probably dredge up an expert. I have a friend who works in the dusty bowels of the British Museum—”
“No. Not from there.” A man alerted to what Jamie was searching for in the basement would notice its absence if Jamie’s plan came off.
Mac’s brows lowered. “All right, there’s Clive Blackstone, but he’s a stuffy git. Knows his urns from his bowls, though.”
“I’m only seeking general knowledge,” Jamie said. He considered what would make Mac back down from this quiet interrogation. “Want to impress a lady.”
Mac’s expression lightened, but Jamie could see in his eyes that the explanation didn’t quite ring true.
“You’re a Mackenzie, through and through. Never mind—I’ll hunt up Blackstone and he’ll bore you with a lecture. How soon do you need to impress this young woman?”
“Sooner the better.” Jamie rose. “Tomorrow?”
Mac sprang lightly to his feet. “Tomorrow it is. Now, cease distracting me. I can’t get my shadows right.”
Mac was a brilliant painter, and Jamie had no doubt the shadows would be the best ever done once he was finished. Jamie slid out past him, giving himself a glance at the painting—which was incredibly beautiful, even half-finished—and departed.
Evie opened the note that landed at her place at the Atherton breakfast table a few mornings later, her heart beating faster as she observed the scrawled JM at the bottom.
Amenhotep III, Thursday, six pm. Burn this.
Very melodramatic, Evie thought as she rose from her chair and made her way to the dining room fireplace. Sir Hector, buried in his newspaper, did not notice as Evie dropped the note to the flames and watched it crumple to ash.
The letters of Jamie’s initials held fast until the end, when they vanished in a sudden spurt of flame.
Chapter 11
At half past five in the evening on Thursday, Evie skulked about the exhibits in the Egyptian wing of the British Museum, trying not to check her watch too often. Jamie’s cryptic note meant she should meet him at the museum at six, by the massive statue of Amenhotep III—or Amenhotep’s head and arm, at least.
Evie nonchalantly gazed at the exhibits in the gallery, working her way slowly toward the giant pillar that held the pharaoh’s colossal head. Jamie was nowhere in sight.
The museum would soon close to sightseers. A fine rain fell outside, a mist rising. It would be a cold walk or hansom ride back to Upper Brook Street if Mr. Mackenzie did not make an appearance.
Evie moved to a stone sarcophagus, studying its hieroglyphs and pretending to read the card that told her all about the piece.
A man called down the galleries that they would be closing. Please, ladies and gentlemen, make your way toward the doors, and mind you retrieve your coats and umbrellas. Good evening.
Evie hadn’t relinquished her coat to the cloakroom, nor had she brought an umbrella. She had no excuse to linger in the gallery, as though waiting until the queue at the cloakroom grew smaller.
She reached Amenhotep’s pedestal, feigning interest in the granite arm stretched beside it. It was rather spectacular, really, features perfectly chiseled in this very hard pink, black, and white speckled stone. The artisans had been quite skilled.
Good night, ladies and gentlemen.
People flowed through and out of the gallery, and soon the guard would come along to usher out the stragglers. Evie slid behind Amenhotep’s pillar, casting about for an excuse as to why she wasn’t pouring out with the rest of the guests.
She suppressed a yelp as a hand landed on her arm. Evie whirled to behold Jamie, garbed in a flowing black greatcoat over his suit and kilt.
“This way, lass,” he said under his breath.