CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Desdemona smiled in dreamy satisfaction, replaying the morning’s events in her mind … making only slight modifications to the romantic adventure and that purely for the sake of her muse.

The great pyramids pierced the earthbound cloud, ascending from the depths of that thick white sea of mist and climbing to the very seat of heaven. Two mortals voyaged in this unreal world, a broad young man and a girl on the cusp of womanhood. They approached the gilded pinnacle of this lost civilization silently, marveling at the spectacle.

The man was handsome, his bold, hawklike features framed by a wealth of tumbled curls the hue of a … a raven’s wing. His step was panther sure on the uneven ground, his keen falcon’s gaze vigilant for any danger that might threaten the companion he tended with such exquisite care. He barked orders at their attendants, plotting their trusty donkeys’ course across the barren landscape in order to ensure that the brilliant sun was kept from irritating the creamy pallor of the young blossom of womanhood by his side.

She sighed and cupped her chin in the palm of her hand. Not only had the morning been wonderful but there was more to look forward to. In a short while Lord Ravenscroft and she would be dining at the palace of the khedive’s own secretary, Abd al Jabbar.

Absently she wondered if Harry would be present. With any luck, she decided, he’d have left for Luxor by now and would be gone a few days. Time for her and Blake to become better acquainted without Harry’s disruptive presence. Time for Blake to provide a much-needed tonic to Harry.

Harry. She’d thought she’d known him as well as she knew herself. Better. Blake had told her that Harry’s hunger for position and acceptance, his yearning for the things Blake owned and Harry did not, his failure to achieve his desires in England had ultimately driven Harry to Egypt.

A week ago she would have discounted such a tale as nonsense. But these past few days she’d seen shadows in Harry’s eyes she’d never dreamed existed, heard in his voice something unrecognizable, seen something potent and desirous in his expression. Or had she imagined them? It worried her that she was once more spinning fantasies around Harry Braxton.

She frowned and caught a glimpse of the timepiece swinging from a gold chain around her neck. Little more than half an hour before Blake arrived. Hastily she went in search of something vastly becoming in which to attend dinner. Something with yards and yards of lace.

She opened the giant, battered armoire and gazed inside with a sense of resignation. The few dresses that hung in lonely isolation within the vast expanse looked dowdy and outdated. Undoubtedly because they were dowdy and outdated. And there were no yards of lace. Clothes, nice as they were, were not high on her long list of priorities.

Closing her eyes, she thrust her hand into the wardrobe and grabbed the first dress her hand fell on. She peeked at it. It was the light champagne-colored muslin thingie, with a sweetly draped bodice and limp ruffles hanging from the demisleeves.

At least it would be cool, she thought, disrobing. Lord Ravenscroft seemed to have a passion for coolness. Several times during their excursion yesterday he’d remarked in awed tones on how fresh she looked. Poor Lord Ravenscroft hadn’t fared so well.

It would be difficult staying “fresh” all bound up in jacket, vest, shirt, tie, and trousers. Dizzy resolutely admired, while she wondered at, such a strict adherence to a personal dress code.

Whenever he was outside the city, Harry immediately shed his jacket. He went about in a shirt, trousers, and a khafiya, the nomad’s headdress, his sleeves rolled up over his tanned forearms and the loose edge of the headdress flipped over his shoulder. Harry always looked comfortable. And masculine. And casual.

Well, comfort wasn’t everything.

A light rap announced Magi just as Desdemona finished buttoning her bodice.

“Oh, good, Magi. You’re just in time to help me.”

“There is a problem?”

“This dress doesn’t want to fit. It looks all rumply. Not like a proper dress at all.”

“Proper.” The word came out flat.

“Yes. Ladylike. Smooth. Form-fitting.”

“Tight.”

“Yes.”

“Turn around. I will tie you in.” Obediently Desdemona presented her back. Magi took hold of the faded silk grosgrain sash and gave it a vicious tug.

“Ouch!”

Magi ignored her, pulling the sash tighter, grunting with her effort. “Why aren’t you wearing a corset? All admired English ladies wear corsets. You will never be admired by an admirable English gentleman if you do not wear a corset. Oh, yes. I forget. You hate corsets. Perhaps you are not such an English lady after all … hating corsets as you do.”

Desdemona would have answered this impertinence but she couldn’t breathe. With a snap, Magi finished the huge bow. “That man is here,” she said.

“Lord Ravenscroft?” Desdemona gasped, working her finger under the sash and loosening it.

“Yes.”

“Well, show him to the sitting room,” Desdemona said. “And get some lemonade for him. Tell him I’ll be down directly. Ladies never hasten to meet their gentleman callers … do they? Is there any lilac water left? Do you remember where I put it? Is my hair tidy? Are my teeth clean?” She lifted her lip for Magi’s approval. The woman just stood there. “And stop glowering at me.”

“Desdemona,” Magi said, “you deserve a corset.”

“Wake up, Master Harry.”

He couldn’t quite accommodate the oily, familiar voice. He was hot, his head pounded, his side throbbed, and his shoulders burned as if—

He cracked open an eye and peered upward. He closed it again. Bloody hell. He’d been, strung up by the wrists like a side of beef in a pest-infested slaughterhouse. The buzzing wasn’t just inside his head, it came from hundreds of flies.

Not only had he failed to “fight his way free” of his assailants, he’d been clipped across the back of his head like the greenest tourist.

He swallowed. His throat was parched. He had no idea of how long he’d been out. The weak light washing the dingy surfaces of the walls suggested it was late afternoon. That meant he’d been unconscious at least a day. All he could do was hope that when he’d failed to meet Blake at the house, his aristocratic cousin had realized something was wrong and gone for help. Fat chance.

“Come now, Master Harry. I am waiting.”

He recognized the voice with a sinking sensation. Maurice Franklin Shappeis, one-time overseer for the Cairo Museum—until Harry had taken it into his head to make sure no more children died as a result of Maurice’s directives. The flies suddenly made sense. Maurice was not a proponent of personal hygiene.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead or something, Maurice?” he asked. “I thought your men had finally had enough of you and torn you—”

The rest of the sentence was cut off as Maurice’s fist hammered into Harry’s side, low, over his kidneys. Agony ripped through his body. He gasped, sagging forward. The sudden weight yanked his arms in their sockets, burning bright pain through his shoulders.

“What do you want, Maurice?” he gasped.

“To hurt you.” The man’s oddly feminine, casteless features broke into a sweet smile. Though he sported a French Christian name, it was impossible to guess his antecedents. Slavic, French, Italian, Turk … at one time or another he’d claimed them all.

“Well, you’ve achieved your goal. Can I go home now?”

Another blow, this one higher up, over ribs that felt as if they’d been mule-kicked. This time, however, Harry was ready. He rolled with the impact, absorbing as much as the blow as he could. It still hurt like hell. Maurice must have done some damage while he’d been unconscious. Harry wasn’t sure if he approved or not.

“Come on, Maurice,” he panted. “You may want to get some of your own back from me, but not unless you can make a profit from it. You’re too savvy a businessman to allow personal feelings to make you take such a risk. Remember?”

“What risk?” Maurice asked.

“I’m still a citizen of Great Britain and you …? Well, are you a citizen of any country?”

For a simple rhetorical question it had a nasty effect on Maurice’s temper. He backhanded Harry across the face. Harry’s head snapped sideways and his lip sliced open on his teeth. He groaned loudly, letting Maurice know his blows were working. No sense encouraging any extra effort on his behalf.

“Who hired you?” he croaked.

Maurice shrugged. “You are right. I work for another. Better pay than the chickenshit I got as Paget’s foreman. I could almost thank you for that, Harry.”

A tic started at the corner of Maurice’s eye. He didn’t look particularly grateful.

“Who?” Harry repeated, glancing around at the room. It was dirty and sparsely furnished with a stool, a chair, and a table covered with oiled paper. An earthen jug sat atop it and alongside that a fat satin pouch.

“My employer prefers to remain anonymous. And as for the money he pays me”—Maurice pointed at the purse—“I am to make; your life … uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

“You make many enemies, Harry. People do not like you to make fools out of them. Are you still making a fool out of the women?” he asked, studying him closely. “The fine Mrs. Douglass?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Maurice laughed. “Oh, I have learned much about you since our last encounter, Harry. I have made it my business to learn. There does not seem to be anything you care about. But I, most especially, know this isn’t true. You mask your feelings well. Who, for instance, would have guessed you carried such strong emotions regarding the death of one little Arab brat?” Though his words were soft, virulence twisted Maurice’s small features. “So what is it you care about? Not the English widow who chases after you, Mrs. Douglass.”

Harry probed his lip with his tongue.

“Your artifacts?” Maurice suggested softly, his animalistic eyes intent on Harry’s face.

“Yeah.”

“Sir Robert or Miss Carli—” Maurice’s eyes grew round, gleamed with fierce perception. “Ah! Miss Carlisle! I see it. There. In your eyes, in the muscles that leap with the mention of her name.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Miss Carlisle! Most pitiful. She does not even know you exist.”

Harry couldn’t speak, he could only stare, sudden winter running in his veins. Fury choked him. He jerked savagely against the ropes holding him.

“Now, now, Harry …” Maurice clucked, backing up a pace.

“Don’t touch her. Don’t even look at her.”

“Oh, I look. Very delicious little morsel. But I have been paid to hurt you, not the pretty little Miss Carlisle. So”—he shrugged—“I will comply. But after I am done with you … perhaps someday, for my own sake, I will visit Miss Carlisle.”

Enraged, Harry surged forward, snapping to a halt at the end of the rope tethers. Straps cut into his wrists, his tendons tore with his effort. He ignored the pain, wrenching again and again against his restraints, the blood pounding in his temples.

Maurice laughed. And then there were a lot of blows.

Desdemona convinced Lord Ravenscroft to walk the short distance to Jabbar’s palace. As they rounded the corner of the boulevard, they were greeted by the sight of the Nile, smooth tea-colored waters flowing beneath them as, in the background, the Great Pyramid sparked with sunlight, a tiny triangle shimmering above a veil of heat.

“I’m surprised you can see it all the way from here,” Lord Ravenscroft said, leading her along the railed promenade beside the river.

“Yes. Magnificent, aren’t they?” She pointed out at the pyramids. “Legend has it that the last Mameluke Bey, the one routed by Napoleon, signaled his wife Fatima from atop the Great Pyramid after he’d paid Napoleon’s ransom for her.”

“Such a pretty storehouse of knowledge.” Lord Ravenscroft picked up her hand and raised it to his lips. “I did not get a chance to thank you, Miss Carlisle, for this morning’s excursion.”

He pressed a lingering kiss on her knuckles, his gaze intent. His hand was large and pale, unmarked by scars or calluses, the hand of a nobleman.

“You are most welcome, m’lord,” Desdemona said, watching the way the setting sun caressed his black, glossy hair. “You seemed in something of a hurry when we parted company. I trust that there were no extenuating circumstances demanding your attention?”

“Oh, no. No, indeed. It was all just rather overwhelming. I … I felt I needed some solitude in which to assimilate the experience.”

“I understand. The pyramids have that effect on me, also.” She nodded, pleased to find herself in such accord with him. “I hope I did not overwhelm you with too many details?” she added worriedly. It had crossed her mind once or twice during their tour that perhaps Lord Ravenscroft did not find the subject of ancient Egyptian customs as fascinating as she did.

“No, indeed,” he said, relinquishing her hand and leaning forward over the rail so that the breeze ruffled his long black locks. “You are an exemplary guide. So much information. So many facts. Your discourse on the embalming methods of the ancients was a revelation. And how conversant you are regarding eviscera!”

Desdemona laughed uneasily. “I’m afraid I sometimes get carried away. I’ve lived here for so many years that I forget what makes nice conversation. Forgive me.”

“Not at all, not at all. It was all most absorbing. Even the Coptic jars …”

“Canopic,” she corrected him. “Copt is a religion.”

“Whatever.” His gaze traveled over her face, her shoulders, her—

“Did you enjoy the sunrise?”

“Very much,” he murmured. She moved back a step. There was a lazy, sensual quality to his regard that she was unused to and therefore uncomfortable with. His gaze played over her entire person whenever she spoke, not stopping at her face and eyes, but slipping down her body, making; her feel unclothed, aware, above all the things she knew herself to be, that she was a woman. One of many. She dismissed the traitorous thought.

“The first rays of light bathing the pyramids are quite the most arresting vision one might have in Egypt,” she murmured.

“There was another vision, closer at hand, that arrested my attention,” Blake said. His voice whispered in her ear. “You are surpassingly lovely.”

“Oh, my.” Her hand fluttered to her throat.

He made her forget patched dresses, ledgers that wouldn’t balance, street orphans, and her grandfather’s debts. He’d strode right out of the pages of the wondrous Ouida’s romances and he found her, her, appealing. And yet she couldn’t still the inconvenient thought that her value wasn’t limited to her looks. She could translate—

“I see I am precipitous.” His magnificent eyes abruptly clouded. “I am a bold man, Miss Carlisle,” he said. “But I have never known a woman like you. You are unique. If I am too forward, forgive me. I would not offend you. Some would say that life had dealt cruelly with me. Perhaps that may account for my manner.”

She stopped and turned, her unease evaporating in a rush of sympathy. “Miss DuChamp?” It slipped out before she could stop herself. Shocked by her audacity, she covered her mouth with her hand, staring at him in dismay. “I am sorry, Lord Ravenscroft.”

“No matter.” His expression grew shuttered, tense. With an effort he made himself smile. “And please, call me Blake. And I would like to call you Desdemona.”

“Why, yes. I’m sure no one will think it untoward. We are a close little community here.”

“So I gather. And how close are you”—his eyes glinted—“to my cousin?”

“Harry?” She blinked. “Harry is … Harry and I don’t … he doesn’t regard me as … we’ve never …” She stuttered to a halt, feeling her cheeks grow hot as memories of frantically kissing Harry crowded her mind. “We are friends,” she finished lamely, realizing that she spoke the simple truth and yet the word didn’t seem nearly intimate enough.

“Good,” Blake said firmly. “Harry’s years here have only made more pronounced the undesirable aspects of his nature. I wouldn’t want to think you’d become overly familiar with him. He has, I believe, for all his shortcomings, considerable charm.”

She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I suppose you could say that. What do you mean ‘undesirable aspects’ ”

He looked down at her, his face solemn. “Yesterday afternoon he got into a street fight with some peasants. Undoubtedly he’d swindled them. He told me to run rather than face his adversaries. I did not like it, but I was even more unwilling to physically harm men I was unsure deserved it. And indeed, my worst suspicions were confirmed for afterward, rather than seeking me out and explaining the situation, Harry disappeared. I assume he was ashamed to face me. Harry would not have an easy time admitting culpability to me.”

Desdemona’s brow furrowed violently. “That doesn’t sound like Harry.” But did it? she could not help wondering.

“What would you know about Harry, Desdemona?” Blake asked not unkindly, and she could not help but think that she’d just been asking herself that same question. “I assure you, he is not that man you think. He’s not anything like the man you imagine he is.”

“But—”

“I won’t say more.” Capturing her elbow, he led her down toward the palace garden’s gate. A small Arab boy dressed in rags scurried up toward them.

“Sid! Sid!” The child tugged at Blake’s jacket. “You buy scarab. Nice antika. Very old. Belong pharaoh.”

Desdemona stopped. It was Salik. Though thirteen years old, Salik looked like he was eight. Every bit of him was covered with filth.

She bent, examining the grubby palm holding up a cracked clay blob. It had been painted a startling blue, but the paint was chipping and the incision marks were sloppy.

“The lad wants baksheesh?” Blake asked, digging in his purse for a coin.

“No.” Salik scowled at Blake. “I am no beggar. I sell antika, relics. Good relics. Very ancient.”

“Well, this certainly doesn’t fall under that heading, Salik,” Desdemona said sternly, dropping the little beetle back into the boy’s open hand. “Put your money away, I beg you, Lord Blake.”

The boy grumbled.

“I have told you before, Salik. You should listen to me. Find Matin. He will teach you how to make a proper scarab.”

The boy’s grimy face turned thunderous. “I do not need Matin. I sell many, many scarabs.”

“You would sell many, many more if you’d just swallow that oversized—and completely unwarranted—lump of pride stuck in your throat and learn from a master,” she returned.

“Bah!” Salik grumbled, turning his back on Desdemona and jabbing a skinny, bony little digit at Blake. “You then, Good Master. You buy antika? Bring home to ladies, make a good impression,” he said, sidling closer.

“My lord, Miss Desdemona,” Blake said, “do you actually know this urchin?”

“Yes,” Desdemona said, eyeing Salik darkly.

“Well,” Blake said, holding out the coin he’d extracted, “we must encourage such an enterprising lad.”

Salik snatched the coin from Blake’s hand and scooted away.

Blake turned and beamed at her. “Resourceful little imp.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem very pleased, Miss Desdemona. Should I have given him more?”

“No.” She sighed. “I have been trying to convince Salik to join Matin for months. That boy could be learning a useful skill and making a real living rather than subsisting on pennies for those atrocities he’s trying to foist off as scarabs.”

“Matin?”

“A true genius at producing fake, er, faux scarabs. Most people can’t tell them from the real ones.”

“You’ve certainly come into contact with some interesting people here in Egypt,” he said.

“Actually, I bought quite a few of Matin’s facsimiles before I realized they were not authentic.”

“You?” Blake asked in surprise. “But you’re an expert.”

“At languages,” Desdemona answered. “Oh, I’m no Egyptologist. I know a few things, I have an adequate eye, but I am certainly not an expert in the leagues of my grandfather or Harry.”

At the mention of Harry’s name, the severe expression returned to Blake’s face. Desdemona gave up trying to fathom the rivalry between the two men. And rivalry it undoubtedly was. What else could cause such taut animosity? She sighed. “Anyway, Matin now has his own workshop.”

“Workshop?”

“It’s actually a small turkey farm. The boys make the scarabs and then feed—” She stopped. She couldn’t possibly explain to Blake that the turkeys’ digestive juices added just the right patina of age to the carvings. And that then the aged scarabs had to be harvested from the droppings. And that she had helped Matin find a market for his wares—for a small percentage. It was not at all the sort of thing a young English lady did.

He was waiting, his grave handsome face puzzled.

“It’s not all that interesting,” she said. The words felt like a betrayal.