CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Mrs. Douglass, please try the fruit. Very sweet. Very nice,” said Jabbar, the khedive’s secretary, cutting Simon Chesterton off in midsentence. Marta inspected the heaping silver platter one of the legions of silent servants offered her.

The desperation on Jabbar’s dark face had grown as the evening wound toward an end and Simon’s harangue on the uneven distribution of relics between French and English archeological factions hadn’t. “Or some cheese?”

Marta plucked a slice of melon from the platter and dangled it inches from Cal Schmidt’s mouth. “Would you like some?”

Cal’s eyes crinkled appreciatively at the corners. Instead of taking the ripe, moist-looking fruit from her fingers, he encircled her wrist, guiding her hand and its offering to his lips. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

In many ways—certainly the most important ones—the tall American was as mature as she. Over the past few days he’d pursued her with a singleness of purpose that had at first amused her and finally charmed her. His directness and unapologetic materialism were refreshing contrasts to English posturing. And if he lacked sophistication, he possessed a native shrewdness that made up for it.

Cal released her hand and winked.

Of course, Marta thought, no matter what his attractions, he still wasn’t Harry, whose intelligence was flavored with such a piquant irony, whose sophistication was underscored with an element of ruthlessness. Harry had lived. It was unclear how or in what way life had marked him, but marked he was. The scars were subtle … and provocative.

“Please, Colonel Chesterton. Eat!” Jabbar insisted, interrupting Marta’s thought.

Georges Paget, attending the party as France’s representative, paid no attention to Simon’s diatribe. He’d heard it all before. Besides, he was too busy eating.

“If your sultan were to give England the directorship of the Cairo Museum instead of those French—”

“Here, Colonel Chesterton, you must have a fig.” Jabbar popped the wrinkled brown fruit into Simon’s open mouth. Though an act of fond familiarity in keeping with Turkish etiquette, Marta was certain it served a dual purpose. It was a big fig.

With obvious satisfaction, Jabbar relaxed in his ebony-and-malachite inlaid chair. He clapped his hands and a troop of servants appeared. Smoothly, snowy Irish linen was whisked from the table as crystal bowls were slid in front of each guest. In each bowl of warm, scented water floated a single water hyacinth. Earlier they’d dined on solid gold plates.

Despotism had its rewards.

“I have heard extraordinary reports of your great linguistic abilities, Miss Carlisle,” Jabbar said, dipping his fingertips in the water and waiting while an attendant dabbed them dry. “Are they true?”

The others politely turned their attention toward where Desdemona Carlisle sat beneath Blake’s possessive gaze.

“You must be very proud,” Jabbar prompted.

A frown turned Desdemona’s lips. A woman had to have a care not to frown in front of men, Marta thought. Too bad the girl’s mother hadn’t lived long enough to impart such basic wisdom.

“As I have never striven for this accomplishment,” Desdemona said slowly, “it isn’t something I expect I have the right to take any pride in.”

“You are too modest.”

“No,” she insisted. “I am not. Reading languages comes naturally to me.”

“But how interesting,” Jabbar said. He flicked a fingertip and another troop of servants swept in to replace the wine goblets with champagne flutes. For a despot’s lackey, Jabbar had unusually European tastes.

Desdemona smoothed her muslin skirts. At one time—at least three seasons ago—the gown might have been termed champagne colored. Now, however, it was simply “not white.” Marta gave a shiver of distaste. No matter what one’s financial situation, a woman could always afford a new dress. And really, Desdemona should reveal more flesh if she was to keep Lord Ravenscroft’s interest. A happenstance Marta had every intention of encouraging.

“That’s real fascinating, Miss Desdemona,” Cal said. “Is it true you can read a full dozen languages? Every word? Even the pronouns?”

She colored. Good. Men like Blake Ravenscroft loved pink girls.

“Yes,” she said shyly.

“Even the ones like Latin?” Cal prodded.

“Yes. And Greek, Hebrew, Swedish …”

“How bizarre!” Marta exclaimed, and Blake shot her a glare. “Charmingly so, of course. I’ve never heard of the like.”

“She can do it.” Simon nodded, his beard bobbing up and down. “It’s the Anglo-Saxon blood. Much better suited to scholarly undertakings than the fevered blood of”—he shot a look at Georges—“other cultures.”

“Come now, sir,” Cal protested with a laugh. “You don’t really believe that.”

“The blazes I don’t! How many French chits do you suppose knew five languages by the time they were eight? How else do you account for her?”

“Intelligence?” Blake asked dryly.

Marta smiled. It was all going very well. She settled back preparing to give herself over to Cal’s attention when she noted Georges’s demeanor. Apparently his long-suffering silence had finally found an end. He drained the last of his wine and set the flute down with a bang.

“Intelligence is not the soul province of the English—”

Simon ignored him. “Intelligence coupled with British cool-headedness,” he declared. “The khedive ought to see these attributes more properly recommend the Eng—”

Jabbar poked another fig in Simon’s mouth.

“I’m all agog, Miss Carlisle,” Cal said. “How can someone speak a language that hasn’t been heard for thousands of years? Could you demonstrate?” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together expectantly.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. You see, I can’t actually speak the language, I can only translate them.” She shifted uncomfortably.

Drat the girl. She should take advantage of every opportunity to pique Lord Ravenscroft’s interest. Especially here, now, when Harry wasn’t present, Marta thought. There was nothing for it, she would have to step in.

“My dear,” Marta said, “a demonstration of your abilities would be a delightful interlude in … the conversation. I’m sure we’d all be thrilled to have an insight into the mind of the Egyptian.”

“But I don’t know any real Egyp—”

“Whatever you can offer will be appreciated,” Marta said sternly, casting a speaking glance at Simon who’d nearly finished gulping clown his fig.

“Oh!” Whatever her blind spot concerning Harry, Desdemona was no fool. She would oblige if she thought she could help her host out of an uncomfortable situation. “Of course. Let’s see.” She paused, obviously casting about for something suitably entertaining. “Ah, yes. I recently read this charming love poem. New Kingdom”—she grinned mischievously—“I think.” She cleared her throat and began:

“Did you say Aton?” breathed Simon.

Georges froze, his fork half raised to his mouth. “Where did you read this extraordinary missive?” he whispered.

“A papyrus. It purports to be scribed at the behest of Nefertiti herself.” Desdemona vested the word “purports” with added emphasis.

“Nefertiti?” Cal said.

“Where the devil”—Simon caught Jabbar’s hand as it swooped in carrying another fig—“stop it, Jabbar—where the devil did you get hold of it, Miss Desdemona?”

“I acquired a scroll when I was, er, visiting a trader’s encampment last week.”

“What encampment?” Simon leaned across the table, resting heavily on his meaty forearms, the end of his beard dangling in the water bowl.

Marta’s interest quickened. Could the girl actually have stumbled onto something important? Idly she swatted Cal’s hand from her knee, attentively watching Simon and Georges’s reaction.

“Oh, Colonel Chesterton!” Desdemona chuckled. “I’m sorry I’ve teased you. I can assure you the papyrus is forged.”

“Oh, oh, yes, of course.” Simon and Georges slumped back down in their respective chairs, their disappointment nearly palpable. “Ridiculous to think that it could be otherwise,” Simon said. “Why would traders allow a young gir—” He broke off, his face suffusing with bright red color. “If they were real, your grandfather would be strutting about the table crowing, not poking about in El Minya.”

“This Nefertiti is that Akhenaton fellow’s wife, right?” Cal asked, stretching his long legs beneath the table where they rubbed intimately against Marta’s. He grinned lazily.

Georges continued a melancholy study of his empty plate. “Yes. The great queen-wife of the heretic.”

Simon nodded. “If someone did find something—” He glanced at Desdemona and grimaced. “You shouldn’t give an old man heart palpitations like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Desdemona said contritely. “They are rather good fakes. The author has a definite feeling for New Kingdom verse: word usage, cadence, imagery. But the subject matter is too earthy to have been written by the consort of a pharaoh. Indeed, in some cases it is openly lascivious.”

“Really?” Georges asked interestedly. In fact, Marta noted, all the men from Jabbar to Cal looked interested. Men hadn’t changed in four or five millennia.

“Yes.”

“You know, I still wouldn’t mind taking a look-see at them,” Simon offered. “Purely from an academic standpoint.”

“Me, too,” Georges said.

“Not necessary, sirs,” Desdemona said. “I’ve offered them to a New York publisher. You give me hope that they may provoke some interest—purely academic, of course.” She grinned.

The blasted girl didn’t see the disapproving frost in Ravenscroft’s eye, Marta thought. The chit had spent too many years with too many conversations open to her, privy to too much knowledge and too many … “experiences.”

“Drat!” Cal said.

“Unfortunate,” Simon murmured.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to waste your time on them,” she teased further.

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Blake said suddenly. “Who could have foreseen that salacious scribbling would be of any interest to such … learned men?”

The learned men sank back in their chairs, looking properly chastised if not particularly convinced.

“How chivalrous you are to champion Miss Carlisle, Lord Ravenscroft,” Marta murmured. Even though the girl looked perplexingly unimpressed with Ravenscroft’s gallant intercession, what romantically inclined girl could resist such chivalry? Marta smiled.

None.

Desdemona thanked her host and followed Cal Schmidt and Marta out of the palace and down the wide stone steps leading to the front gardens. Behind, Georges bolted out the door, Simon hot on his trail. She stopped, awaiting Blake, and looked around in pleasure.

Above, a milky moon disappeared beneath indigo-colored clouds. The scent of night-blooming flowers flavored the cool air. An occasional black-winged kite screeched during its phantom flight overhead.

Cal paused at the bottom of the steps, twirling his watch fob. Red light flashed from its many inlaid jewels. Marta, too, had noticed the sparkling bauble. She was smiling in a distinctly predatory manner.

“You had those two going in there, Miss Carlisle,” Cal said in impressed tones. “Little bit of a thing like you.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Who’d a thought there was an imp under those gold locks?”

Desdemona laughed. She couldn’t help herself, the American’s easygoing humor was contagious. Marta didn’t seem to see the humor. She looked relaxed but aloof, her smile uninterested.

“Listen, Miss Carlisle, the more I think about that Apis bull, the more I want one. You say you were at a trader’s camp the other day. Did you see one?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Schmidt. I wish I had.” He’d never know how much.

“Oh, that’s okay. I know Mr. Paget is trying his best and Mr. Braxton. I ’spect between the two of those fine gentlemen I’ll get what I want.” He turned his attention to Blake. “Say, Lord Ravenscroft, maybe we should pool our resources and share a carriage.”

“Oh, Mr. Schmidt,” Marta said, leaning limpetlike against his arm. “I was rather hoping to walk. It is such a lovely evening and you’re such a big, strong man. I feel quite safe in your care.”

“But your house is a good two miles away, ma’am,” the American said.

“Is it? Perhaps. But then, if I recall correctly, your hotel is not.”

The American broke into warm laughter, and blood raced up into Desdemona’s cheeks. The woman was shameless. How could Harry ever have—

“Let’s go, Miss Carlisle,” Blake clipped out, taking her elbow and guiding her onto the footpath intersecting the gardens. At the gate leading to the street Blake stopped and looked around for a carriage, once more, as he had all evening, acting on her behalf. He’d championed and protected her womanly sensibilities. All the things a hero did. He was becoming enamored of her.

It was wonderful.

Wasn’t it?

“We may have to wait awhile, Desdemona.” He was standing very near. She could smell the bay rum he used, see the shadowy cast of his incipient beard. He stepped closer, taking her hand and pressing it.

“We could walk, too,” she suggested.

“Yes.” His voice was low. His dark head bent nearer. Her breath caught in—anticipation that felt like anxiety.

A sudden low sound drew her attention. With a curious sense of relief, she backed away from Blake and peered around, looking for its source.

“Damn it,” Blake said.

A figure detached itself from the night, and for a second the masculine form was silhouetted against the street torches before it staggered toward them.

Although darkness masked his features, Desdemona could see that the man’s shirt hung open and torn from his lean torso. The ragged khafiya draped his throat like a charmer’s snake. With each step, his gait grew more unsure. He called out in a hoarse, thick voice, but his words were so slurred and painful she could not tell what he said. She started forward but Blake caught her upper arm, stopping her.

“For Chrissakes,” Blake bit out, “you’d think Jabbar would have the beggars kept off the palace grounds!”

The moon suddenly escaped the embrace of scuttling clouds, revealing the man’s features, swollen and battered and somehow—

“Oh, my God!” she breathed. “Harry!”

He stumbled to a halt before her and sank to his knees in the dirt. “Diz,” he muttered thickly, “you’re not hurt.”

“Dear God, Harry! What’s happened to you?”

He grinned crookedly. The moonlight caught the dark gleam of blood on his lip. “Well, Diz …” He gasped. “You always said … you’d see me … on my knees.” He pitched forward.

She caught him before he hit the ground.