As the gentleman pulled his horse to a halt he turned his head, his profile in stark relief against the dark stable door.

“Damn it!” Robert slammed his glass onto the table, the brandy sloshing out as he stalked out of the parlor.

CHAPTER 11

A diary entry from Michael Hurst the day he discovered the first onyx box.

I wasn’t impressed with the onyx box itself when I purchased it, for it was the parchment inside that excited me: a rare reference to the Hurst Amulet. I thought the parchment the true treasure, as there are dozens of such boxes and neither the piece nor its age were particularly notable.

But this morning, after I placed the parchment in a safe location, I prepared to toss the box into a crate to be sent back to England to be sold, and something caught my eye. One side seemed a little thicker than the others. To my surprise, it opened and revealed—I cannot trust myself to write it here, but I think I now know why I’ve been unable to find that damned amulet here in Egypt.

Someone removed it long, long ago.

Moira wearily contemplated dismounting her horse, her legs trembling with fatigue. Her escape had been flawless; no one had seen her and she’d quickly caught up to Buffon’s coach, which had led her here.

But other errors had been made. First, she was much weaker than she realized, which had become apparent as the hours passed.

Second, she’d assumed that Robert’s valet, being of such a prim and precise nature, would travel timidly. But either he had the constitution of a workhorse, or his commitment to his employer’s appearance was fanatical, for Buffon had only stopped when forced by the needs of the horses. Which had left Moira riding much longer than she’d expected.

She patted her horse’s neck. “No doubt you’re as tired as I am, aren’t you, girl?” The mare whickered softly. “Well, there’s no rest until this saddle is off, is there?”

Gathering herself, Moira swung out of the saddle. As her boots hit the cobbled yard, she knew she’d made a mistake. Her knees buckled instantly, and if she hadn’t been holding on to the saddle she’d have fallen to her knees.

She set her teeth and forced her weak legs upright. They locked in place like a tin soldier’s; only by leaning against her mount was she able to stand.

Behind her, she could hear the altercation between Robert’s valet and a groom. Thankful for the diversion, Moira rested her forehead against her horse’s neck. “Now what do I do?” If she tried to walk, she feared she might fall. But she couldn’t stay here much longer; someone was bound to see her, and while her costume was good enough to stave off instant recognition, it wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny.

She’d just have to grit her teeth and try to make it to the stables. Once there, she could find a place to rest away from prying eyes.