A Perfect Hero by Samantha James Page B

Phillip brushed an in sect from his coat, then looked over at Dane. “When shall we meet again?”
    “Let us see how the game plays out for a time, eh? I shall contact you in London.”
    Phillip watched as Dane swung up onto Perci-val’s back. “To success,” Phillip said with a faint smile.
    Dane inclined his head. “Indeed,” he mur mured.
    With a brief salute he rode into the night.
    Miles away in London, the streets of Westminster were nearly deserted. Within a small, brick fronted house, Nigel Roxbury strode into a tiny study and picked up a sheaf of papers from the middle of his desk. In the corner, a tall pendulum clock ticked loudly.
    Dressed in a worn black jacket, his was a face undistinguished by any particularly remarkable features—except for the patch that covered one eye. Shrewd, calculating, and tough were among the traits attributed to him by his colleagues. Still, he considered himself a relatively simple man. He did not aspire to wealth. God knew he was in the wrong profession for that. He did not whore or gamble or drink to excess. But he was a great admirer of all things ancient, the graceful simplicity and line.
    He glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. Where the devil was she—
    A knock sounded.
    He strode to the door and threw it open. With a swish of her skirts, a woman entered, pulling back the veil that covered her face.
    Though some ten years his senior, she was, he admitted, a woman who had aged most grace fully. Her skin was still ivory and smooth, her features elegantly refined, but there a glint of sil ver here and there streaked in her hair. Clad in a gown of the latest Parisian fashion, her petite form remained as slim as many a girl’s.
    “Greetings, madame !” He led her into the study. “Ah, you have something for me!”
    She handed him a small box. Impatiently, he pulled off the lid and thrust aside the coarse yel low straw. His eyes gleamed as he lifted out a gleaning statuette. The light from the lamp glinted off the smooth gold surface.
    “Glorious! Absolutely glorious!”
    Taking a seat across from him, his visitor arranged her skirts over her knees.
    “That piece is worth a fortune.”
    “And I am paying a small fortune for this and the other pieces you will bring.”
    “Yes,” she said archly. “And I can only won der how a man such as you can afford such pieces.”
    “Oh, come!” he admonished. “Must you look at me so? Why should only the rich indulge their passions? For twenty years I’ve longed for such treasures. Your late husband Armand and I shared a fascination for the splendors of Egypt. Oh, but he was a generous man to allow others to view them at their leisure! He chose to donate his collection to a museum. I find, however, that I am not so magnanimous.”
    “It is not your passion to which I object,” the woman said coldly, “it is how you go about it.”
    “Ah, you mean your involvement. Come, a few pilfered pieces from the tombs of the an cients, otherwise destined for the art market! I can hardly compete with private collectors or museum buyers, can I? How fortuitous for me, though, that you remained acquainted with the
    curator’s assistant François.”
    “Yes,” she said shortly, “and I must pay him.”
    His eyes flickered. “I fear there has been a slight problem.”
    Her eyes flashed. “We had an agreement!”
    “And it will be honored,” he said irritably. “There has simply been a delay in the transfer of funds.”
    “The transfer of funds,” she repeated.
    Roxbury’s expression hardened. “That damned highwayman the Magpie has seen fit to rob me,” he said brusquely. “And François did insist on gold.”
    “I see. Perhaps there will be some delay, then, in the next transfer of your goods.”
    “It would not be wise to threaten me, madame . You know who you deal with. Neither of us wants to lose what we have, do we?” With a fin ger he traced the headdress of the statuette, ad miring it once more before glancing at