The Scandalous Love of a Duke. Jane Lark

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      Empty. Damn. But there would still be the paintings. John leant back, resting his buttocks on his heels. “Hand me the spade.”

      Later, John sat beneath the canopy before his tent, in a canvas chair, his feet resting on the sand. The sky was red, and the sun glowed on the horizon, about to fall. Then suddenly it literally dropped over the edge of the world, leaving only the blue-black darkness and a million glinting stars, the stars he’d seen painted on the ceiling of every temple.

      The sun had never set like this in England.

      He drew on the tip of a thin cigar and then let his hand fall when he exhaled.

      The tomb they’d discovered today had been an official’s. It was empty, but it wasn’t treasure which excited John anyway. What thrilled him was the emotion of the search and the find.

      John took another draw on his cigar.

      He was in a thoughtful mood, brooding.

      His gaze reached up to the darkness and the stars. The black of night was like polished jet here, not the dull pitch it was at home.

      When his grandfather had packed John off on the grand tour to sow his wild oats abroad, the intention had been that John would return with his youthful dissipated fire burnt out. The only problem was that nothing in England drew John back.

      The images from the dream he’d had last night crowded into his head. It was a dream he’d had a thousand times. This was the root of his melancholy mood. He always felt like this when he’d dreamt it.

      In the dream, he was a child, looking from the window of his grandfather’s grand black coach. He saw his mother, with her dress clutched in one hand as she ran behind them, reaching towards him. His stepfather was there too, behind her, his expression violent with anger. But it wasn’t only a dream, it was a memory. A memory John had never asked to be explained. A memory he’d never admitted he had.

      His grandfather had taken him from them, he’d never understood why.

      His childhood had been lonely before that.

      Perhaps that was why he felt so comfortable in a desert.

      He’d been given back to his mother a few weeks later. But the memory his head constantly echoed in a dream was the defining moment of his life. The point he had been torn in two, by his grandfather’s will and his mother’s love. One was hard, cold and aggressive, the other warm, welcoming and enchanting. But the second had been a childish need. What abided in him now was the barren land his grandfather had cultivated.

      John’s earliest memory was of his grandfather saying he had no mother, when John knew he did. He’d not been allowed to speak of her. He’d never known why. She’d written to him for years, and then she’d come. She’d taught him kindness and consideration, empathy and understanding, while his grandfather had encouraged restraint and harsh judgement.

      Now, John was just constantly angry at the world. This was the reason he’d stayed abroad. He was his grandfather’s monster. The years spent in Europe had taught John that.

      He took another drag on his cigar, and then exhaled.

      Good God he’d been his mother’s child, naïve and foolish, when he’d arrived in Paris. Obvious prey for the she-wolves hunting those grounds. He’d been seduced by their world and fleeced. It had taken months to learn the art of disengagement. It had left him bitter. His grandfather had achieved his wish: John did not trust a soul.

      The choice he’d made after that was the only one open to him – not to go back. Not going back was his defiance. The only way he could win the battle against his grandfather.

      Then he’d found Egypt and a purpose, something beyond himself. Something which made him feel again. The only problem was this loneliness at night.

      When it was dark, the isolation became stark and these memories flooded in. In his youth he’d covered them with friendships. In his dissipated years he’d smothered them with sex. He’d had nothing to do with women since he’d come to Egypt. There was no hiding from recollections here.

      He tilted his lips in a mock smile. He thought of his stepfather, and his brothers and sisters, who kept increasing in number. It was Christmas in four days. He imagined all his family together. Occasionally he wrote home to tell them he was still alive.

      He took another drag on his cigar, clearing his thoughts.

      He didn’t wish to think of them, nor England. He thought of the tomb he’d found.

      ~

      A brush in his hand, John lay on his stomach, cautiously sweeping sand away from the painted wall-plaster of the tomb they’d discovered four days before. The colours were so bright they could have been painted days ago not hundreds of years before.

      “My Lord!” John looked back. Mustafa, his manservant, who usually stayed in camp, was at the entrance, looking in past the couple of feet of sand still filling the opening

      “My Lord! This letter came from England.”

      Mustafa waved the thin paper as though it were something wonderful.

      John glanced at Yassah. “Carry on without me.” Then crawled backwards out of the tomb.

      The midday sun blazed down.

      John stood.

      He took the letter and saw it had passed through Alexandria a month ago. He recognised the writing as his stepfather’s. In England it was winter. Today was Christmas Day. His family would be on his stepfather’s small estate. Sometimes he had spent it with them there. Sometimes he had been forced to spend it at his grandfather’s. Either way, Christmas did not bring forward many fond memories. Perhaps a couple before his brothers and sisters had become so numerous, but after…

      John wiped a hand on his trousers then broke the seal.

      His grandfather would be horrified if he saw the calluses on John’s hands.

      Glancing up, John thanked Mustafa and then began walking towards the canopy his men used at prayer times.

      He stopped in its shade and opened the letter. A second, separate folded sheet fell out. He held that aside and read.

      The letter was dated months ago, in August.

      His father’s words were carefully couched, but the meaning was clear, the Duke of Pembroke, John’s grandfather, was dying.

       He could be dead.

       Lord!

      John’s fingers covered his mouth. His lips were dry, but inside he felt like ice, even in the heat. His hand swept back his hair.

      He had to go back. He’d been bred to take over his grandfather’s estates. The choice was no longer his.

      Then it struck him, he should feel grief. He did not. He cared nothing for the old tyrant. But he did feel strangely suspended, as though time had stopped. As though it would never start again.

      John СКАЧАТЬ