Seduce Me (17 page)

“Now, then, what can I do for both of you?” the older man asked.

Fielding could still see the nervous man from that day in Solomon’s, but Mr. Nichols was doing an admirable job of hiding
his anxiety for the time being. No doubt that was for Esme’s benefit. Evidently the man wanted to hide his fear as Esme wanted
to hide her bracelet. Still, it was hard to miss the older man’s twitching hands and sweaty brow.

“Phillip,” Esme began, “please call me Esme now that we’ve met in person.” She sat on the edge of her seat, careful to keep
her right wrist and the band hidden. “In my readings I’ve come across reference to a Biedermann’s Diary. Have you heard of
it?”

The cat had settled on the older man’s shoulder. “Biedermann’s Diary,” Mr. Nichols repeated. “Well, now, that does sound familiar.”
He scratched his chin. “Let me think. Perhaps I’ll take a peek in my own notes.” He grabbed several small books from a nearby
secretary and flipped through them. “I’ve seen the name, know I have. I only have to find it.” He moved to a second book and
stopped flipping pages halfway through. “Ah, yes, here we are.”

Esme smiled at Fielding, her excitement shining brightly in her eyes. Were he not the man he was, he could see how easy it
would be to join in that enthusiasm. Esme’s passion was contagious. But Fielding was immune.

Mr. Nichols’s chubby finger pressed against the text as if he were holding the words on the page. “Biedermann, a German scholar
of Pandora’s box who moved to London about forty years ago.” He kept skimming his finger down the journal. “Yes, yes, he was
in possession of the only copy of an ancient text regarding the legend, and his life’s work was translating it.” He looked
up at Esme. “Thus the diary detailing his efforts.”

The man went back to the book. “Evidently Biedermann died a couple of years ago,” he read, “and all of his belongings, including
his diary, were donated.” He turned the page, the paper scraping across his shirt. “To the museum.”

“Which museum?” Fielding asked.

Mr. Nichols looked up. “Why, the British Museum. Evidently Biedermann had quite a collection, and his nephew, who inherited
it all, had no use for his uncle’s research and didn’t want to pay to have the books shipped back to Germany. A couple of
months ago he simply gave it to the museum.”

“So the diary should be there as well?” Fielding asked.

“I suppose.” He frowned. “Although I wouldn’t think it would be on display. If I had to guess, I’d say they probably have
translators working to complete Biedermann’s work before they put the original text and its translation in the exhibits.”

“But they don’t allow patrons to see items that are not on display,” Esme said. “How could we view it?”

Mr. Nichols shrugged. “I suppose you could go in after hours and take a peek.” He smiled broadly.

“Break into the museum?” Esme shrieked. “Absolutely not. We couldn’t.” She shook her head. “No, there must be another way
to…” But Esme didn’t finish her thought. She eyed Fielding cautiously.

“Another way to access the diary,” Mr. Nichols said. “No, I don’t suppose there is. You could try to set up an appointment
with the curator, but the new one they recently hired is an addle-brained twit.”

Mr. Nichols continued complaining about the museum curator, but Fielding wasn’t listening. He’d brought the box with them,
upon Esme’s request, only because he’d given her the benefit of the doubt that her scholar friend might be able to help them.
Fielding had hoped the man would be able to take one look at the box and immediately figure out how to remove those bloody
bracelets. Then, when they’d arrived here and Fielding had seen that it was in fact Mr. Nichols, he’d had second thoughts.

Despite not wanting to keep Solomon’s abreast of his every move in this situation, and despite not trusting Solomon’s, Fielding
could not deny that Mr. Nichols might be able to help them. Help Esme. She was ready to rid herself of the curse, and Fielding
couldn’t blame her.

He leaned forward and held out the bag to Mr. Nichols. “We found it.”

Mr. Nichols stopped speaking and eyed Fielding in confusion. Then recognition lit his aging face. “The box?” Mr. Nichols’s
eyes rounded and quite instantly filled with tears. “Oh, sweet heaven.” He pulled the box out of the bag and for several moments
simply stared at it. “You succeeded, boy!”

“Not completely,” Fielding corrected. The cat circled Fielding’s legs, purring loudly.

But Mr. Nichols was too involved in examining the box to make note of Fielding’s words. The man ran his hand reverently over
the top of the box. Closely, he examined every side, following the engravings with his fingertips.

Fielding nudged Esme.

She sighed but nodded. “If one wanted to rid themselves of a curse, how could one do such a thing?” Esme ventured.

“Oh, curses—such nasty things.” He laughed at his own joke, then unfolded a pair of spectacles and perched them on his nose.
“Now, then, what sort of curse are we talking about? The sort you find on the outside of a mummy’s tomb? Or perhaps one that
releases a biblical plague?” He paused and looked up from the box, “Oh, dear, this is about the box, isn’t it? I’m so daft.
Someone has opened it, then?”

“The Raven’s men,” Fielding said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Esme relax.

“What has happened?” Mr. Nichols asked.

“Nothing,” Fielding said.

“As of yet that we know of,” Esme corrected, “but certainly it is affecting them. It appears the box holds cursed bracelets,
and the wearer of a bracelet becomes the victim of its curse. We know that both of the Raven’s men reached into the box, and
each received a bracelet for his efforts.”

“Indeed?” Nichols reluctantly set down the box and moved to his worn desk. He opened a massive book and began to skim through
several pages. “So a curse that afflicts the individual. Those are tricky, I can tell you that.”

“But it’s possible to break the curse?” Esme asked.

“Dear girl, anything is possible.” Mr. Nichols smiled. “As Mr. Grey here has proven by rescuing the box. Of course, with these
cursed bracelets released into the world, there is still much work to be done.” He nodded toward Fielding.

Fielding and Esme exchanged glances. He nodded; trying to encourage her, give her hope. Still, he knew the whole ordeal was
beginning to take its toll on her. While she still looked lovely, exhaustion had settled behind her eyes. She held up such
a brave front, but the edges were beginning to crumble. He longed to comfort her but made no move to do so.

“Ah, yes, here we are. An ancient gypsy tradition of ridding oneself of an evil spell.” His finger followed along the page.
“Yes, yes, the art of tattooing.”

“I beg your pardon?” Esme said.

“Tattooing. Well, in this case, simply painting one’s body. Not to worry, dear; they are not always permanent. For some it
takes only inscribing the body with an anti-curse to rid the person of their affliction.”

“What sort of inscription?” Esme asked.

Mr. Nichols grabbed a piece of parchment and scrawled out a note. He handed it to Esme. “It would need to go on the persons’
centers, their lower backs, and lower abdomens, as well as across their hearts and at the base of their heads.”

“What sort of tools would one need for this process?” Esme asked.

“I believe I still have some of the paste I used for this very thing.” He opened a cupboard and began rummaging through the
contents. “About twenty years ago, I was in Rome with a friend, and we came upon a tomb.” His voice was muffled as he talked
into the closet. “In any case, we were both plagued with a skin disease, but this method did the trick, and we soon were good
as new. Good, I found it.”

He came over to Esme and handed her a small clay pot, the sides stained with what looked to be dried ink.

“I would simply use a quill,” the older man suggested.

“And write the inscription on the person’s body?” Fielding asked.

“Directly onto their skin,” Mr. Nichols said.

Fielding watched Esme swallow. “How long will the ink last?” she asked.

“It’s temporary, but it does last a good two weeks,” Mr. Nichols said. “I suspect the most difficult part will be catching
those two thieves and holding them down long enough to apply the paint.”

Esme released a nervous laugh. “That will be challenging.”

“If the ink is twenty years old,” Fielding said, “will it not be dried out?”

“That’s not ink, my boy; well, not standard ink. It’s a type of herbal paint, and it should be in perfect condition.” To prove
his point he took the pot from Esme, opened it, and showed the black liquid to Fielding. “As it should be,” he said, then
handed it back to Esme.

Mr. Nichols returned to his seat and again picked up the box. “There are so many theories on the curse of Pandora’s box, it’s
hard to know what will happen to those men. I don’t suppose it should be our concern as far as them injuring themselves, but
if the curse afflicts others… Wait a moment.” He leaned over to the secretary and retrieved a large magnifying glass. “What
have we here?”

“What is it?” Esme went and stood next to him.

“An inscription, here on the bottom,” he said.

“How did I miss that?” Esme asked.

Mr. Nichols read aloud in what Fielding assumed was ancient Greek.

The older man frowned. “Essentially it says that once the box is breached, you have until the next lunar eclipse before those
who opened the box are destroyed.”

“Lunar eclipse?” Esme asked. Her face paled as she wandered back to her seat. “That’s not even—”

“A week away,” Fielding interrupted. He may not believe in this curse, but it was clear Esme feared for her life. He must
find a way to remove the blasted bracelet before the eclipse.

Fielding stood and said, “It appears we have work to do.” He placed the box back into the bag. “Thank you for your time and
suggestions.” When Esme still hadn’t risen, he held out his hand to her. “Esme, we need to go.”

Her green eyes met his. In that moment he longed to be the hero she believed him to be. He would
have
to be that hero. He could not allow anything to happen to her.

E
sme, are you absolutely certain about this?” Fielding asked. She’d come to his room wearing nothing but a robe and carrying
a quill and the paste Mr. Nichols had given her.

“It’s the only way. We cannot break into the museum. It simply wouldn’t be right.” She took a deep breath and stepped into
his room.

“What about your aunt?” he asked.

“No,” she said firmly. “She mustn’t know about the curse.” She closed the door behind her. “Thea’s nerves have been rattled
enough; I don’t want to worry her any further.”

He shook his head. “You know this isn’t going to work,” he said, more to himself than to her. And perhaps it wouldn’t, but
what if the damned inscription on the box was right, and they had only a handful of days to get that band off her wrist before
she died? The thought sickened him. Regardless of how he normally felt about curses and the like, this time he wasn’t taking
any chances.

“No, we don’t know that. Mr. Nichols said it worked for him once before,” she said.

Fielding held up his hands in surrender. “If you want me to paint your body, I won’t argue with you. Where do you want to
start?”

“My back.” She held a dark blue sheet in her hand. “I thought this might help to keep most of my body covered.”

Her modesty mixed with her prior brazen behavior toward him was an alluring combination.

With a shuddering breath, she turned her back to him and dropped her robe.

It occurred to him he probably should turn away, give her some privacy, but he didn’t. And there she stood in her full glory.
His eyes took in the length of her, a narrow waist flaring out into generous hips and then her bare bottom, so rounded and
full. This was going to be a long evening. The sheet came around her, covering her tempting body.

He retrieved a wooden chair from the corner of the room and set it in front of her. With a forced cough, he tried to clear
the desire out of his voice. “Sit on it backward.”

Esme straddled the chair.

“Drop the sheet farther down.” Fielding tugged on the material at her back.

She let the fabric fall to her waist.

“This will probably be cold,” he said. He scrawled the first word of the inscription.

She sucked in her breath and arched away from him. “It’s actually quite warm. How strange.” Her back relaxed.

He wrote another word and then another. The quill slid across her pale skin, leaving behind a dark engraving that marred her
perfect flesh. Yet something about it—the roundness of her bottom peeking up from beneath the dark blue sheet and the black
ink staining her back—was intensely erotic.

Word for word, he copied the phrase onto Esme’s back. He reached out to test how wet the first words were. Her flesh was warm
beneath his fingers, and he found the writing had completely dried. “It dries quickly,” he said.

“I suppose we should do the base of my head now.” She gathered up her chestnut hair, clearing the nape of her neck.