Dean Pierce wheeled himself into the room with the ease of practice and powerful hands. Concordia was standing by the fireplace. The man looked as amiable as ever. There wasn’t a trace of the anger Concordia had seen in the dining hall a few weeks ago, the day Miss Grant was attacked and left for dead. But she knew it was there, just under the surface. The red-flushed, apoplectic look of a man with a quick temper. His red hair was gone, but the rest remained.
“What can I do for you, dear?” he asked, as he motioned her to sit. She perched nervously on the settee.
“I have made some unpleasant discoveries that I came to discuss with you.”
He looked puzzled.
“Miss Phillips has finished transcribing the shorthand from my father’s journal entries. About my father’s last expedition in Egypt,”
