An Improper Aristocrat. Deb Marlowe

may hang in the balance and I just do not know!’

      Panic reached down her throat and stole her breath away. What if it was true? She had despised the legend, hated the light in her grandfather’s eyes when he spoke of it, the excitement in her brother’s tone when he talked of leaving, of chasing after a myth. She had resented the way the story grew, interfering with their lives. When talk turned to the legend, she had turned away. And she had been right. Her father had been murdered because of it; most likely her brother had been killed seeking it. But what if her ignorance also doomed Mervyn?

      ‘Calm yourself,’ Trey ordered. He refilled her glass. ‘We shall sort it all out. Tell me what you do know.’

      She breathed deep. Panic accomplished nothing. If there was one thing she had learned from her troubled early life, it was the value of a clear head in a time of crisis. She drank again and drew courage from the warmth the brandy spread through her chest. ‘That is nearly all of it,’ she said shakily. ‘The legend is old. It came to Europe when Bonapart and his delegation of scholars and artists returned to Egypt at the turn of the century. There was talk then, that the scarab had been found, and brought to France.’

      ‘It wouldn’t surprise me to find that true. Many items went home with the French.’