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"Off you go now, ladies. Mr. Price has business to attend." The porter shooed them away with a flick of his fingers, then held out a white card to Edmund. "Here you are, sir. Oh, and we'll be arriving at the station shortly. I've made arrangements for a coach to be waiting for you."

"Thank you. I'll be sure to let your superiors know what a fine job you've done for me." Edmund swapped a few coins for the telegram before retreating to read the message—which took some time and effort. Why could letters and words never behave themselves? Were it not for his business partner, Gil, in London and his crack secretary, Anil, in India, he'd never be able to manage the correspondence portion of his business dealings. After several tries, though, he was finally able to decipher the thing.

Well, well, well. Edmund set the message on the desk, then poured a glass of lemon water. Sipping the tart liquid, he mulled over Lord Bastion's proposal. Becoming a member of Parliament would be a stamp of success, but was the cost of a willful blond worth the price? Of course he didn't love her—would never love a woman again—but did such a concession have to rule out marriage? Weren't most unions marked by shallow conversations and cool looks across a dinner table? His parents certainly had perfected that art. He ran a hand over his face. My, how cynical he'd grown.

Still, there were other concerns to tackle first. He returned the glass to the drink cart, then doubled back to the desk and picked up a small piece of amber. Lamplight glowed through the specimen, highlighting the outline of a scarab—the only item he'd retained from the Egyptian shipment soon to arrive at his house. He frowned at the insect. Who knew what else was in that salvaged lot he and Gil had acquired from the failed venture with the Alexandria Merchant Fleet. He'd have preferred to be paid the debt owed him in pounds. If the cargo contained nothing but items such as this beetle caught forever in some hardened tree sap, resale would be a challenge.

And he needed that money.

He rubbed his thumb over the smooth surface of the resin. He was a man of business, savvy in buying low and selling high, but none of that experience would do any good with this load. He had no idea how to price such a bauble or—God willing—rare antiquities. He'd have to hire an expert to catalogue and value the relics, for there'd be crates upon crates of them... enough to put a huge grin on his business partner's face. And by the sounds of Gilbert Fletcher's recent correspondence, Gil had news that would make him smile as well—news he'd only tell face-to-face. Though Edmund was anxious to hear of it, Gil was tied up in a deal on the Continent. The soonest he could make it to Oxford was the end of next month.

Edmund closed his hand over the resin, the material now warmed to his body temperature. God had been good to him in many ways and yet sometimes not. A mystery, that. One he'd asked about in prayer many times and not once received a reply. How long would he sojourn in this land of uncertainty between gratitude for providence and the enigma of unanswered questions?

Brakes screeched, pulling him from his thoughts. The train juddered, and he grabbed hold of the table until the wheels stopped. The second they did, he pocketed the stone and dashed for the door. Thankfully the aisle was empty. Relieved, he grabbed his hat from a hook and darted to the exit, where a porter he'd not seen before dipped his head.

"Hope your journey suited you, Mr. Price."

"It did, thank you. But I'm afraid I'm in a terrible rush." He angled his head toward the door.

The porter swung the door wide. "Mind yer step."

Just as he'd feared, Edmund descended into a swirl of skirts and lace handkerchiefs. Bah! Such a gathering was completely beyond his control—which chafed, for he was accustomed to being in charge.

"Mr. Price! Remember me?" Eyelashes fluttered on the woman nearest him. Light from the station's gas lamps painted her very prettily, but he honestly didn't recall her face. "My cousin once removed said he'd mentioned me to you at a house party several years ago."

Behind her stood a stern-faced matron who'd been cajoled—or perhaps bribed—into allowing her charge out so late at night.

"I am sorry, miss. I do not recollect, but I am sure his words were kind." He edged past her, only to come nose to nose with a plump brunette.

"Welcome back to bonny England, Mr. Price. My father intends to hold a dinner in your honour. Naturally, I look forward to sitting next to you at the table."

"Yes, well... until then." He gave the woman a tight smile.