CHAPTER FIVE

Everyone who was anyone eventually dined at Shepheard’s Hotel. Occupying the site of what had once been the palace of the Muhammad Bey, the hotel had just undergone a sumptuous refurbishment and drew even greater crowds of cosmopolitan tourists than it did before. The wealthiest, the most elite, and the most cosmopolitan company Cairo had to offer dined here, and these days, that was cosmopolitan indeed. Old money and new, titles and scholars, dilettantes and adventurers crowded the spectacular, ornate terrace.

Harry, of course, had managed to secure a table not only on the terrace but at the rail, overlooking the lovely vista of parks and palaces.

Marta Douglass, the only woman in his party, looked over her fellow diners: Colonel Simon Chesterton, a fixture in Her Majesty’s Egyptian army for over twenty years; Cal Schmidt, her own distinctly American escort; and Lord Blake Ravenscroft, Harry’s darkly handsome cousin. Pleased with the ratio of men to woman, Marta wondered whom the other two chairs awaited.

“I’d like to propose a toast.” Lord Ravenscroft raised his glass. The others followed suit. “To Lenore DuChamp.”

Marta Douglass waited for some further revelation regarding the woman they’d just toasted. None was forthcoming. Lord Ravenscroft was being purposefully enigmatic, for which Marta was distinctly relieved. Listening to men drone on about other women was tiresome.

As soon as they’d been introduced she’d recognized Blake Ravenscroft; an aristocrat, confident of his superior looks, his superior social situation, his superior breeding. Something of a rake, too, she decided.

Pity, so few rakes truly liked women. They clung to their cynicism like a talisman. Now, scoundrels were a different matter, she thought fondly. Her deceased husband had been a scoundrel. Too bad he had not lived. If one were a romantic, which she most certainly was not, one might even say tragic.

She had been widowed when Colonel Hick’s campaign of ’81 had resulted in her lieutenant husband’s death. Rather than return to the restrictive embrace of her husband’s disapproving family, she’d stayed in Cairo. It had proven an entertaining—sometimes even lucrative—decision.

But now it was time to think of the future. Soon she would be thirty-two. She had no substantial wealth, and her looks, while still impressive, were beginning to show subtle signs of age.

Thankfully her sunburned American escort didn’t appear to notice the half-dozen years she seniored him. Beneath the cover of the linen tablecloth, his hand seemed to be taking on a life independent of his brain. Dear boy. She took a sip of wine just as Georges Paget, the deputy director of the Cairo Museum, appeared beside their table.

“Madame Douglass.” The plump, middle-aged Frenchman inclined his head.

“Monsieur.”

“Paget, join us,” Harry invited, waving a waiter forward and requesting another place be set. Immediately the waiter scurried to comply.

“If I do not interrupt,” Paget said, having tallied the accumulated wealth represented at: the table and gauged it worth his attention. French national interests not withstanding, Paget’s real interest was making a lucrative living “distributing” high-end relics. He’d apparently decided there might be a buyer present.

“Not at all,” Harry said, as the setting was completed and a waiter brought Paget another chair.

Throughout the introductions, Simon sat back in his seat, his enormous beard settling over his uniform like a dingy laprug. He stroked the graying mat, regarding them thoughtfully. Though first and foremost—so he claimed—an officer in Her Majesty’s army, Simon was also one of the; world’s most renowned collectors of Egyptian artifacts.

How fortuitous that he’d been assigned duty in Cairo, Marta thought wryly, glancing at the thick gold band adorning his little finger. She masked her tweak of chagrin. A life-long bachelor, Simon could well afford to play the role of collector. It seemed monstrous that the only women Simon spent his money on were embalmed ones.

“How’s business, Georges?” Harry asked, drawing Marta’s attention. Not that she’d forgotten him. Not for a moment. His collar was rumpled and his jacket was creased. It didn’t detract from his appeal in the least.

“Business is thriving, Harry,” Georges said. “Only last week I was brought a piece I would stake my reputation came from Akhenaton’s tomb.”

“Come now, Georges, Akhenaton?” Harry asked.

“Who is Akhenaton?” Cal asked.

“Who is Akhenaton?” Simon echoed in such extravagantly shocked tones that Marta wanted to laugh. “My dear lad, you really must spend some of that Yankee cash on books. Especially if you intend to take up archeology.”

“Akhenaton was a pharaoh,” Harry explained, his face alight with the avidity it often wore when he spoke of ancient Egypt. “A pharaoh who took it into his head to promote his own god above all the others. Rather adamantly forced the issue. Renamed himself after his god, built a city dedicated to him, compelled his people to worship him.”

“And this is the fellow whose tomb Mr. Paget thinks has been found?” Cal asked.

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Simon said with a superior smile.

“Why not?”

“As you can imagine,” Simon said, “Akhenaton wasn’t a very popular fellow with the priestly sects dedicated to the usurped deities. Put them all out of jobs, you see. After his death, the priests had a field day obliterating every instance of Akhenaton’s name, every physical reminder of him, his family, and his god. They abandoned his city and certainly desecrated his tomb. No royal artifacts have ever been found.”

“Before this.” Georges smiled like Mr. Carroll’s Cheshire cat. “I know where I will search. But it is hard work, a far distance from any towns. I need to hire an aggressive foreman to oversee the job.”

“What about that French fellow, Maurice Chateau?” Simon asked.

“Maurice Franklin Shappeis is no more French than you,” Georges said, obviously insulted. “Besides, he is no longer in my, er, the museum’s employ.” He turned to Harry. “I would watch very carefully the shadows, my friend. Maurice Shappeis harbors you no goodwill.”

“What did you do to this man, Harry?” Lord Ravenscroft asked, speaking for the first time since he’d made his toast.

“Nothing much.”

Georges snorted. “Harry demonstrates that Maurice’s method of enlisting young workers is not healthy for Maurice.”

Ah, Marta thought. She remembered now. Rumor had it that Harry had fought Maurice after the foreman’s work practices had resulted in the death of some poor Arab boy. Maurice had fared badly in that fight. Very badly.

“I see,” Lord Ravenscroft said.

“I doubt that, Blake,” Harry said mildly. “In Egypt, being a site foreman is one of the more lucrative positions open to an uneducated man. Unless one knows where a cache of antiquities is holed up.” His glance at Georges invited confidences. Georges merely waggled his brows at Harry.

“Oh, but I do see,” Lord Ravenscroft said. “The opportunities open to an … uneducated man are limited in every part of the world.” Something subtle passed between Harry and Blake, and Marta realized that they did not like each other.

Beneath the table, a hand caressed Marta’s knee. Calmly she reached under the cloth and swatted it away. Undeterred, Cal Schmidt winked at her and Marta nearly laughed.

Cal was so impossibly American. A self-confessed neophyte in the game of antiquities collecting, and with apparently no knowledge whatsoever to guide him, Cal had arrived in Cairo a month ago. They’d been introduced shortly thereafter. He was blond, lanky, and rich. Marta could have become fond of him if only—

She looked up, chancing to meet Harry’s gaze. He smiled absently, his gold-flecked blue eyes glinted with humor, and her heart triphammered in her throat. Lord, what a man! There was so much magnetism about him; not only charm, but wit and depth and a generosity that was all the more fascinating because there was nothing in the least naive about it.

Half a decade ago they’d had a brief, delicious affair. When they’d parted it had been without recriminations. She had assured him that her interest, like his, had been satisfied.

She’d lied.

She’d never really gotten over Harry Braxton. She looked away, unwilling to have him read too much in her expression. A wise woman did not wear her heart on her sleeve.

“Dining room’s awful crowded tonight,” Cal offered into the ensuing lull. “Why’s that?”

“Another of Mr. Cook’s famous Nile Expeditions—fares all-inclusive—must have disembarked,” Simon explained with a sneer. “I swear each year that chap hauls more and more inquisitive old biddies up the Nile. The country is littered with Englishwomen. One can hardly see the pyramids anymore for the bustles swarming them.”

“Surely not all of these people are with Mr. Cook?” Cal asked.

“No,” Harry said. “Only the well-dressed ones. The poorly dressed chaps are archeologists. Assorted nationalities represented.”

“Yes,” Georges said, “and I see one nationality represented that I am sure is looking to declare war—of a personal nature.”

Marta looked over her shoulder. Red-haired Gunter Konrad—a would-be archeological expert—sat behind them, thick arms crossed over his barrel chest. His brow jutted above his nose and his jaw bulged at the corners as he stared at the back of Harry’s sleek, brown head.

“I think Herr Konrad is upset with you, Harry. You should not have cheat—” Simon glanced at Lord Ravenscroft. “You should not have maneuvered him into selling that Middle Kingdom collar of his so cheaply.”

“A man should know the value of what he holds.” Harry took another sip of water. “Besides, I’ve made arrangements to make amends.”

“I say,” Lord Ravenscroft suddenly breathed. “Now, there is a treasure worth coveting. Have you ever seen such a piece of tiny, golden perfection?”

“Gold? Where?” Simon asked, hastily peering about the room.

Georges licked his fingertips, following Lord Ravenscroft’s stare. “Pretty, is she not? That’s Desdemona Carlisle.”

Marta followed the direction of everyone’s gaze to where Miss Carlisle’s progress through the room was marked by a wave of men scurrying to their feet as she passed.

She should have known whom those empty chairs were for. Any party Harry arranged was bound to include Desdemona Carlisle.

“She’s lovely,” Lord Ravenscroft said.

“Oh,” Simon said, finally catching sight of the chit. “Desdemona.” He sank back in his chair, deflated. “Nice girl. Odd. A walking encyclopedia. Knows more about glyphs than any ten men in this room and a dozen or so languages. Grandfather’s an ass.”

“A dozen languages?” Lord Ravenscroft asked. “Surely you’re mistaken.”

“I am not, sir,” Simon said indignantly. “She was an internationally acclaimed prodigy as a child. Written up in all sorts of newspapers and circulars, exhibited at the National Geographic Society conference in ’80.”

“You mean her skills were exhibited,” Harry corrected softly.

“Course,” Simon said. “Caused quite a sensation among the Egyptologists. I attended one of her performances myself.”

“How extraordinary.” Lord Ravenscroft’s gaze had not left the petite woman. “However did she end up here?”

“Orphaned,” Simon replied shortly. “No family left in England so they shipped her off here to live with her grandfather. Poor little girl. Jolly lucky bugger—’scuse me, Mrs. Douglass—but old Bobby Carlisle would probably be living in a hut if not for Desdemona. She quite takes care of her grandfather.”

Marta made herself study the approaching younger woman. Lord Ravenscroft was right; Desdemona was exquisite.

Her hair, twisted in a loose—and unfashionable—knot low on the nape of her neck, gleamed like antique gold. Its color was echoed by her delicate, though unladylike, tan and further augmented by the topaz sheen of her outdated evening gown.

She came quickly through the throng, oblivious to the rapt attention her passing caused. Though she moved with fluid grace, there was too much impatience and expectation in her pace, as if she were racing forward to meet her most fervent desires. Marta felt old watching her, so delicate, lovely, and quicksilver, her face alight with pleasure. Trailing behind her, her grandfather spied the gleefully smiling countenance of his nemesis, Simon, and scowled.

A few feet away, Desdemona slowed as the men at the table rose. And now, this close, one could see the unexpected and startling duskiness of Desdemona’s nearly black eyes beneath straight dark brows. It was no wonder that if—as rumor had it—she did wander masked among the natives, she did so successfully. Veiled, with a long chadar covering her dark blond hair, her eyes alone would lead one to assume she was some exotic Ottoman hybrid.

Reluctantly Marta glanced at Harry. He’d gone quite still. Intensity, so at odds with his usual offhand charm, had crept into his expression. There was a barely perceptible tightening of his shoulders and jaw and a slight forward attitude to his posture … as if he were drawn to Desdemona by some magnetic force he resisted.

But for all his covert anticipation, Harry’s greeting was insouciant. He grinned, the last to rise, shedding the lambent, dangerous aspect of his character, like a lion playing at being a house cat.

Damn, damn, damn. Marta wanted to shake him. What could he want with this little, sloe-eyed hoyden? She was unfashionable, bizarre, far too vocal in her opinions, opinionated and restless. She was not nearly woman enough for Harry.

And yet, for all the familiarity Desdemona allowed Harry, as intimate with her as he undoubtedly was, there was a distance—subtle, unfathomable, unspannable—that Harry himself kept between them. Even though, Marta noted miserably, his gaze leapt hotly to bridge that gap and consume the gilt-colored chit. If a man ever looked at her like that, she would follow him to the ends of the earth.

She disliked sitting there, an unwilling, secret observer of such devastating passion. Harry should be looking at her like that. Time was running out. She would have to do something and do it soon.

Someday Harry would tire of this odd, cautious courtship and run Desdemona to ground. Only a fool would refuse such a man. And though Marta fervently wished Desdemona was such a fool, she didn’t believe it to be so.