Curse of the Mayfair Mummy (Wiggons’ School #4) (Wiggons’ School for Elegant Young Ladies) Read online

  Curse of the Mayfair Mummy

  Jane Charles

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Curse of the Mayfair Mummy

  Copyright © 2019 by Jane Charles

  Cover Design by Lily Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Created with Vellum

  For Zachary Robertson, Sagan Drake, Jeffrey Craig, Cheri Beever and Wendy Blickenstaff.

  This story was clearly, and heavily, influenced by My Fair Lady, with my own twist. As I wrote Curse of the Mayfair Mummy, the voices I heard as these characters came to life were yours. Thank you for lending them to me even if you weren’t aware. Also, thank you for being so wonderful to work with when I directed my one and only musical. I am honored to have had the opportunity and I hope we have a chance work together in the future.

  ~Jane

  Prologue

  Wiggons’ School for Elegant Young Ladies,

  Cornwall, England, Spring 1804

  Startled from her reading, Lady Sophia Trent nearly jumped when Miss Rosemary Fairview squealed as she gamboled into the chamber they shared with Miss Eliza Weston. In Rosemary’s hands was a package that must have just been delivered.

  “What is that?” Eliza asked with curiosity.

  “I don’t know yet.” Rosemary plopped herself onto the bed, her chestnut curls bouncing as she set the package down. “It’s from my parents. I can’t wait to see what they’ve sent me this time.”

  Sophia got up from her seat by the window and wandered over. “Are they still traveling?”

  Rosemary nodded. “But they’ve promised to try and return by next summer.”

  “Well, open it,” Eliza insisted, being the least patient of the three.

  After tearing the paper away, Rosemary lifted the folded foolscap that rested inside.

  My Dearest Rosemary,

  Enclosed are my journals from my too short sojourn into Egypt a few years ago. You may recall that following the Battle of Abukir and Battle of Alexandria in 1801, the British army confiscated a number of Egyptian antiquities from Napoleon. One, in particular, held great interest for me—a large stone with fascinating hieroglyphic carvings. No one has been able to translate the language, but I do long to know what was written on that stone. It is said that the French found it in an Egyptian town called Rosetta, but that is only a rumor, so I cannot speak to the truth of the location.

  The number of Egyptian artifacts the British confiscated from the French were numerous, and I wish I could have viewed all of the items, but they were crated and locked away for shipment before I could go through everything. However, I do know they are destined for the British Museum and might very well be on display already. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the stone was translated as well? I do so look forward to viewing the entire collection once your father and I return to London.

  Soon you will complete your education, and there is so much I wish to show you, starting with the British Museum, and then the world, if England can put Napoleon to rest by then.

  I’m certain I mentioned that your father allowed me to accompany a number of antiquarians on their expedition. Thankfully, he isn’t like so many other dreadful Englishmen who won’t allow their wives the least bit of independence or I might have gone quite mad over the years.

  Rosemary, if I can teach you nothing more, at least heed this one piece of advice—don’t settle upon any gentleman who believes it is his right to dictate, order about, or overly protect his wife. You’d suffocate under such a tyrant, as would I have if I had been forced to marry that loathsome earl my parents had chosen before I had a chance meeting with your father.

  However, I digress. Enclosed are my journals, as I’ve mentioned. They contain notes, drawings and research of the history I discovered in Egypt, and most importantly, the tombs of the pharaohs.”

  “Tombs?” Eliza asked with wide grey eyes.

  “Shush,” replied Sophia. “Do go on, Rosemary.

  Until I can show you the world, I’m giving you a glimpse of what I experienced so that you will look forward to the Egyptian exhibit. I dearly hope you enjoy these journals as much as you enjoyed the ones from my travels through the Greek Islands and India. I cannot wait to show you the world, my darling.

  With much love,

  Your mother.

  Rosemary set the parchment aside and opened the small chest. Inside were three thick, leather journals that when the pages were fanned revealed her mother’s excellent penmanship as well as many detailed sketches.

  “You’d think she’d send at least something of interest.” Eliza complained as she flounced over to the window. “All she ever does is send you her journals after she and your father have left an area she found to be fascinating.”

  “I think it sounds very interesting,” Sophia argued. She enjoyed the journals far more than her two friends because Mrs. Fairview gave them a glimpse into the world outside of their school. Sophia longed to travel one day and live somewhere other than Cornwall. Not only was her school located here, but her family estate wasn’t so very far away either.

  “They aren’t horrid novels,” Eliza moaned. “That would have been interesting.”

  The three girls hadn’t found a good novel, full of ghosts and terrors, in some time. The teachers had hidden all books that might contain such elements after Eliza began seeing ghosts, vampires and witches everywhere. Unfortunately, the teachers didn’t realize that Eliza didn’t need a book to fuel her imagination. She accomplished that all on her own.

  “Do you mind if I look?” Sophia asked Rosemary, who handed Sophia the first of the three journals while she opened another and paged through, stopping only to study the sketches.

  Thank goodness the journals didn’t contain anything that could be remotely considered frightening because Sophia wasn’t certain she had the patience to deal with Eliza’s imagination again. First, after the tempest had blown through little over a year ago, Eliza had gotten it into her head that Lord Atwood was a vampire. Actually, it didn’t take the tempest to convince her. Eliza had already convinced herself and Rosemary that Lord Atwood was cursed after they’d read Wake Not the Dead.

  Once the fear of vampires was put to rest, Sophia should have known Eliza’s imagination wouldn’t go on a holiday because as soon as rumors of the Kissing Ghost reached them, Eliza was convinced it was a real ghost, searching for his love so he’d not need to endure eternity alone. Well, the Kissing Ghost turned out to be a real man, and there had been two—one being Anton Kazakov, husband of another teacher and previously thought to be dead. For days Eliza, and Rosemary, were convinced there was an actual ghost. But that was finally put to rest as well and all Sophia could hope for was that Eliza found something other than the paranormal to fixate on.

  Then, last winter, she’d be
en convinced a warlock lived next door and that he was intent on sacrificing one of their teachers. Thankfully, there had been no further incidents of Eliza’s imagination for months, and Sophia dearly hoped that her friend had finally matured and put fanciful thoughts away because sometimes her two closest friends could be quite exhausting.

  Sophia settled once again in the chair by the window and began thumbing through the drawings of tombs and renderings of what had been painted on the walls, the strange writings, as well as drawings of an actual sarcophagus. Thank goodness there was nothing in these books that would remotely interest Eliza, and more importantly, nothing to ignite her already active imagination.

  Chapter 1

  Mayfair, London, Spring 1804

  “What the blazes are we doing here, Pickmore?” Henry Cochran, Earl of Kilsyth demanded.

  Instead of returning to Mayfair as they should have, Captain Jude Pickmore had directed the carriage to another address still within Covent Garden. The coach came to a halt outside a five story, non-descript house.

  “For the fun of it,” his closest friend since Eton answered good-naturedly.

  “Fun of it? We were just at the theatre, and I’m quite done up with fun for the evening.”

  “Yes, and you had a marvelous time picking apart the production by pointing out the holes in the plot before you started in on the poorly-tuned instruments, amateur musicians, and lifeless actors,” Pickmore groused.

  “Yes, well, the play made no sense whatsoever,” Henry insisted. “I’m afraid the days of Shakespeare are behind us.” At one time, attending the theatre had been one of Henry’s favorite entertainments, but no longer. He trained far better actors and actresses to spy for England than those treading the boards of Drury Lane these days.

  “You can still see a good Macbeth when you wish.” Pickmore assured him. “But you really do need to relax, and I have just the thing.”

  “If you want to relax, why not a brandy at Whites like every other respectable gentleman?”

  “Because I’m not in the mood for respectable.”

  “But a gaming hell?” Henry glanced out the window again, and then frowned. At least that was what he believed the establishment to be. Unless it was... “Or is it a brothel?”

  “It’s both,” Pickmore answered jovially.

  “I no longer frequent brothels, nor do I care to gamble.” At least not when the outcome of any wager relied on something so irrational as the roll of a die or toss of a card.

  “Perhaps that explains your peevishness,” Pickmore retorted. “Maybe after a tumble or two you might not be so cantankerous.” He turned to look at Henry. “I really don’t recall you being such a prig at Cambridge. Quite the opposite actually.”

  “I am not peevish nor am I cantankerous,” Henry sputtered. “I simply no longer have the freedoms I once enjoyed.” When they were at Cambridge, Henry’s father and brother were still very much alive, and Henry and Pickmore had quite an enjoyable time. However, two months ago his father and brother had died suddenly after they became ill while they traveled from the family estate to London. One moment they’d been in excellent health and stopped at a coaching inn for dinner and to spend the night, and the next morning they were too ill to travel and soon succumbed to the illness. As the spare, Henry had become the Earl of Kilsyth and his entire life had changed. It was now up to him to marry and produce an heir and a spare when he’d never had any intention of marrying—ever.

  His life was dedicated to the Home Office, and his closest friends were the Devils of Dalston, whom he had met at Eton. The ten of them continued their friendship through Cambridge and into the employ of the Home Office. They were still his friends, but Henry would need to relinquish his Devil status to become upstanding, just as his friend, Westbrook, who had also enjoyed life being the spare until he became Earl of Norbright upon the death of his brother in December. Norbright had gone so far as to marry, but Henry wasn’t prepared to make such a sacrifice just yet.

  The very idea still made him shudder, but he also knew that with an estate and title he had a duty.

  If reforming was so unpalatable, why the blazes was he mentioning White’s over a brothel? Had he really changed so bloody much?

  “Well, you may have outgrown the charms of the opposite sex, but I have not.”

  “You expect me to wait below while you roll around in bed with a woman you don’t even know?”

  Bloody hell, he did sound like a prude, but it was as if the words were coming from his mouth without control. Had he really become such a moralistic dullard?

  Oh, that would never do. Not at all. Though Henry didn’t believe a lightskirt the answer, perhaps his life did need to change before he truly turned into a cantankerous old man before he reached the age of thirty.

  “Since when has familiarity been required before engaging in a mutually satisfying activity? That never seemed to bother you before.” Pickmore turned to Henry. “What I expect is for you to join me.”

  Henry widened his eyes and pulled back. What the blazes?

  “Not join me, join me.” Pickmore frowned. “Good God man, since when have you gotten so literal as well? I daresay you’ve completely changed since you inherited.”

  He had, and Henry couldn’t understand what was wrong with him? He’d been looking forward to Pickmore’s return, knowing that he would lift Henry out of whatever doldrums that had possessed him of late, only to realize he’d become not only disagreeable, but unpleasant, critical, and had lost all sense of non-literal conversation.

  Perhaps his irritation came from keeping to himself in the library. It wasn’t as if he was a hermit, he had visitors—his students, and those associated with the Home Office. However, Pickmore was right about one thing. Henry had changed, and far more than Henry had realized. “There is no need for me to engage with any of the women within,” Henry finally stated

  “A mistress?” Pickmore raised an eyebrow and nodded as if he approved. “Good for you. Now I won’t worry so much.”

  “You needn’t worry at all.” Henry’s irritation mounted. He was worried enough for both of them. Most gentlemen do change as they grow older and have further responsibilities thrust upon them, but Henry hadn’t realized just how ill-humored he’d actually become until Pickmore’s return.

  Did he even laugh anymore?

  “I wouldn’t worry if I hadn’t returned and found you hiding in your library.”

  “I wasn’t hiding!”

  “Yes, well according to your mother, you haven’t attended a single ball, soiree, musical, luncheon, picnic, breakfast, or any societal event this spring. If you ask me, that is hiding.”

  “You spoke to my mother?” Henry nearly choked.

  Pickmore lifted his chin, as if affronted somehow. “Of course, I called on her upon my return.”

  “Before me?” Even though by rights, Henry should be residing in the mansion with his mother, he had remained in his own townhouse so that he could carry on his work without interruption.

  Why the blazes did he care if Pickmore had visited his mother first? Yet, it did hurt somehow. Maybe it was because Henry knew deep down that his mother preferred Pickmore to her own son.

  “Why, yes. You know how I adore the countess.” He ended the statement with a grin.

  “Actually, I’ve been far too busy to consider such entertainments.” Something Pickmore was very much aware, unlike Henry’s mother.

  “The work you do is beneficial and appreciated, but even our superiors can’t expect you to forgo all enjoyment.” Pickmore leaned forward to open the door.

  Henry couldn’t afford to shirk his duties either.

  “Ah, I can see it in your face. No need to answer.” Pickmore laughed. “You, my friend, are in need of amusement.” He held out an arm gesturing to the door. “Adventure awaits.”

  “Perhaps you’re correct,” Henry offered with a sigh.

  Pickmore settled back against the squabs. “What is the matter with you Kilsyth? You�
��ve been dispirited since my return.”

  Yes, he had been. “I’m not certain, Pickmore.” Now was not the time to discuss what plagued him. Not in front of a brothel at least. “Other than I’ve grown bored perhaps.” Which was also the truth. Henry hadn’t faced a challenge in a very long time. And even though he was diligent in this work and training, the instruction he provided had become, well, wearisome.

  “Bored?”

  “There are no challenges left.” Henry frowned and glanced back at the house. There was truth in his statement as well, however, adventure between a whore’s thighs was not what he needed. The problem was, he didn’t know what he wanted or needed. “There’s something missing,” he finally said. “As if there is this gaping hole that needs to be filled, yet I don’t know with what.” And, he was afraid he might always feel that way.

  Pickmore grinned and nodded to the house.

  “Not that,” Henry dismissed. He was lonely, but that wasn’t something he wished to voice aloud either. Henry had thought when his friend returned and took up residence in Henry’s townhouse, things might improve. However, they had not. In fact, it only led Henry to realize how empty his life truly was because he didn’t possess half the enthusiasm when embracing any activity that Pickmore suggested.

  However, he’d go along and wait while Pickmore took care of his needs, and then perhaps they could finally return home. “I do leave my house,” Henry argued as he pulled himself from the comfortable carriage. “Why just last week I attended a presentation on Egyptian artifacts given at the Society of Antiquarians. Furthermore, I’ve taken my seat in the House of Lords and have not missed a vote or debate.” In a flash, he remembered what Pickmore had written from his time in Egypt. “You were in Egypt when the artifacts were taken from the French.”