CHAPTER SIX

What did Harry mean by watching her like that? Caught for that instant, Desdemona could not help but respond although she recognized that he was purposefully exerting his considerable charms. Although for what reason, she could not imagine. He was far too sure of his masculine desirability. He probably listened outside of doors after he left to see how many times his name was mentioned.

She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing that he affected her with his crooked smile and his welcoming gaze, his skin shaved as smooth as amber, his deep tan emphasized by the cool white of his shirt. She gave her head a fractional shake and stood tiptoe, peeking over his broad shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of his cousin. But her view of Lord Ravenscroft was obstructed, and other than scurry around Harry with the obvious intention of winning a view of the English viscount, she could only await an introduction.

Georges Paget bowed gallantly over her hand and Cal Schmidt greeted her with a broad smile. “A pleasure to meet you again, Miss Carlisle.”

“Miss Desdemona,” Simon said, bowing slightly, “how delightful to see you,” and then, after an overlong pause, he jerked his chin in her grandfather’s direction, “and him.”

“I see you are introducing your relative to Cairo’s more disreputable element, Harry,” Sir Robert said, staring stonily at Simon. “A simple lapse of taste? Or did this brigand foist his company on you?”

“Why, you sanctimonious—”

“Pathetic old war horse—”

“Now, Grandfather,” Desdemona cut in hastily. “How have you been, Colonel Chesterton?”

“Fine. Excellent. Been acquiring antiquities at a rate that makes my head spin.”

Sir Robert’s face colored to an unpleasant mauve shade. Simon and he were embroiled in an ongoing battle to see who could acquire the most relics.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you properly on that translation you did for me last week, m’dear,” Simon went on. His little blue eyes gleamed malevolently. Desdemona could have tipped the old brute over. Her grandfather had expressly forbidden her to act as a translator; the occupation was “unbefitting a Carlisle woman.” Little matter that the household was in part supported by those services.

Sir Robert scowled. “Desdemona, you promised you wouldn’t—”

“I’m afraid I’m to blame,” Harry broke in. “I asked Desdemona to look at some pottery I was in possession of before, er, Simon came into possession of it.”

“What pottery?” Sir Robert demanded, successfully decoyed. He was vigilantly jealous of anyone else’s acquisitions. “And why doesn’t Harry do his own translations?”

“That would be interesting,” Blake muttered, winning a tense look of dislike from Harry.

“New Kingdom.” Simon grinned like a fat gargoyle. “Glass inlays.”

“That’s very rare, isn’t it?” Cal Schmidt asked.

“Yes,” Marta Douglass purred, and with her breathy, deep assent Desdemona’s self-confidence teetered. Marta, as elegant as an ibis with her long, pale body and deliberate, graceful movements, always made Desdemona feel short and incidental and … inexperienced, as if the older woman were in possession of a mystery she knew Desdemona would never own.

“You are a collector, too, Mrs. Douglass?” Cal asked admiringly.

“Heavens, no. But if one hangs about with hounds, one eventually learns to bark,” Marta said, winning laughter from the gentlemen.

Sir Robert, however, was not to be sidetracked. “Good Lord, Braxton,” he sputtered. “How can you let this … this person steal treasures from your own country whom I, and the museum, represent?”

“My country?” Harry asked mildly, feigning surprise. “I was under the assumption we were in Egypt, sir.”

Desdemona stifled her laughter behind her hand. He was impossible.

“You know very well what I mean, Braxton.”

“Well, sir, if my country were willing to pay as handsomely for purloined treasures as Simon here …”

“My point,” Sir Robert broke in, “is that as historians we must take the long view. The Egyptians can’t afford to look after their national treasures. They can’t even manage their own government—”

“If we gave them the opportunity, instead of allowing those Turkish—” Desdemona began until she saw one of Marta’s pencil-thin brows jump. She felt the rebuke Marta sent out as sharply as if the older woman had slapped her hand.

“It is our obligation,” her grandfather went on, “as the cultural guardians of the world to safeguard Egypt’s treasures for her until the Egyptians can do for themselves.”

“I see,” Georges said, chomping fiercely on his Turkish delight. “Once England decides Egypt is capable of self-government, you’ll simply pack up all their relics and ship them back from London’s museums.” He sneered. “I don’t think so. The British Museum is nothing more than the world’s most successful looter. And you are no less a graverobber than … than … poor Braxton there.”

Poor Braxton? Desdemona thought in exasperation. Poor Braxton was smiling like a crocodile.

“I think Georges has a point,” Harry said. “Even the prince is not above the odd spot of … grave robbery. At last count he personally owned fifteen mummies and was giving them away like party favors to various friends.”

“How would you know?” her grandfather asked.

“I sold him his last one.”

Georges burst out laughing, and Cal and Marta sniggered. And this time, in spite of her best efforts, Desdemona could not contain her laughter. Harry’s gaze locked with hers and something intimate and piercing and dangerous moved between them, frightening her with its intensity.

How and why had their relationship suddenly become unclear and unsettling? She was certain she was somehow to blame for Harry’s toying with her. She shouldn’t let him see how he affected her. What a fool she was!

Her grandfather’s face had turned an alarming shade of red as he searched for a response to this outrageous—and undoubtedly true—remark. He sputtered, recalling her to her senses.

“It is a point of shame, though,” she said almost by rote. “All these governments, crawling all over Egypt, like ants on a felled animal, rending it apart. At least Harry doesn’t pretend higher purposes for his acquisitive activities.”

“And what would so young a lady know about national interests?” a deep voice asked.

Everyone turned, including Harry. The movement finally brought his cousin into Desdemona’s view. Her eyes widened. Lord Ravenscroft was spectacular.

The perfect antidote to Harry.

*  *  *

The wonderful authoress Ouida herself couldn’t have penned a darker and more intense-looking man. Even Desdemona’s favorite fictional hero by that prolific romantic writer, the manly and suffering Bertie Cecil, would have been hardpressed to match Blake Ravenscroft’s spectacular good looks.

Just above middle height, his perfectly tailored dinner jacket stretched tautly across broad shoulders. His snowy-white shirt provided! a contrast for the ebony curls tumbling across his pale, noble forehead. And he was watching her with the … with the …

 … with the rapt and alert intensity of a falcon. His black eyes gleamed from beneath black, winged brows. His lips were stern and straight beneath his aquiline nose. His features chiseled and noble.

“Comes from all those languages she can read,” her grandfather was saying. “Everybody made so much of her as a child she’s developed the notion that her opinions, no matter what they are, deserve expression,” he muttered with the air of one confessing a relative’s secret voyeurism.

“Oh, she does, does she?” Lord Ravenscroft’s utterance was warm with amusement.

“Ahem.” She cleared her throat, giving Harry a hard look of reproach.

“Oh, yes,” Harry said. “Sir Robert Carlisle, my cousin, Lord Blake Ravenscroft. Dizzy, that’s Lord Blake Ravenscroft. Blake, Miss Desdemona Carlisle.”

Of all the ungracious—

Blake—such an exciting, manly name—cut in front of Harry and claimed her hand. He raised it to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Carlisle.” He brushed a kiss across her knuckles before slowly relinquishing his hold and turning to her grandfather.

“Won’t you be seated, Sir Robert?” Blake gestured toward an empty place across the table. “Miss Carlisle?” He yanked out the chair next to his.

“Thank you,” Desdemona murmured, settling gracefully.

The old debate over the disposition of recovered artifacts, having been brought out and attended to with monotonous adherence to custom, was summarily dismissed, and for the rest of the dinner the conversation stayed—more or less—on neutral ground.

Because she was trying so valiantly not to stare at Lord Ravenscroft, Desdemona spent the dinner uncharacteristically quiet. She found it a nearly impossible task. Blake Ravenscroft could have been fashioned directly from one of her daydreams. Big, dark, intimidating, and brooding.

“Who,” Blake finally said in his deep, aristocratic accents, “would have imagined I would travel thousands of miles only to find an exquisite little English rose blooming in the desert?”

Bertie Cecil couldn’t have said it better himself! In fact, he may have said it just the same in Chapter Fourteen of the romantic epic Under Two Flags. She smiled at Blake.

“Nice plantings, aren’t they?” Cal Schmidt asked, peering over the balcony to the famed Ezbekiya gardens spread below them.

“I was speaking of a flower blooming nearer at hand,” Blake said.

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Cal said, dividing his beaming appreciation between Marta and herself. “Though I can’t say I can appreciate roses myself. Give me a cactus blossom any day of the week. Though I’ll confess they’re a mite harder to pluck than a little old rose.” Desdemona started to chuckle but, catching the severe expression on Lord Ravenscroft’s face, she turned it into a choke.

“Fish bone,” she said, pointing at her throat, fighting down the tiniest flutter of disappointment. Well, she’d never made a sense of humor a prerequisite for her romantic heroes. She glanced up and saw Harry. He wore a huge, delighted grin, and she had a hard time suppressing her own answering one. Harry’s smiles were infectious, particularly when they were inappropriate.

“Ah.” Harry nodded knowingly. “Spiteful things, fish bones. Fearful the way they’ll stick in the old craw. I say, gulping down a great wad of bread can sometimes wash down the particularly tiresome spine. Just pop one of these down whole and you’ll be right as rain.” He wiggled the bread tray under her nose.

“No. Thank you. I’m fine.”

“Have some wine then, Miss Carlisle. Shepheard’s reputation is well warranted,” Blake said, his dark eyes on her. “Its wine cellar is superlative.” He edged his chair nearer hers. Around them the others continued talking about the latest site being excavated. Blake swirled his glass of ruby-colored burgundy and held it invitingly. She smiled shyly and sniffed. Lovely bouquet. At least, she assumed it was a lovely bouquet. She preferred lemonade herself.

“They use the dungeons as the wine cellar,” she said.

“Dungeons?” Blake asked. “What dungeons?”

“The Mameluke Bey’s,” Harry answered. Desdemona hadn’t realized he’d been attending. “The previous tenant,” he elaborated. “Shepheard’s is built on one of the old Mameluke palaces.”

“Interesting, the things you manage to hear, Harry.” A piquant expression softened the harsh line of Blake’s mouth. But rather than winning a matching warmth from Harry, it seemed to sting him. Harry’s brilliant eyes shimmered, a sharp unreadable chill spreading over his usually open, animated face. Deliberately, he turned from Blake.

“I am sure you will find your stay in Egypt fascinating, Lord Ravenscroft,” she said, trying to ease the tension that had sprung up between the two men.

“I already do,” he answered. “I’m intrigued.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Just because he didn’t find her womanly charms worth remarking on did not mean other men did not.

“I didn’t realize you had any interest in Egypt, Blake,” Harry said.

“Indeed. Considering your successes here, I’m becoming quite interested. I was hoping to persuade you to take me on a tour of some of the nearer monuments,” Lord Ravenscroft said. He turned back to her. “I am eager to explore the pyramids. Imagine the thousands of years they have stood witness to civilization. Men’s lives fade and their names are lost in the passage of time, yet that which they build endures. If only I …” He broke off suddenly.

There was no mistaking the sudden unhappiness that descended on him. His black brows dipped, his lips closed into a thin, tight line.

What troubled this brooding, handsome man? Heartbreak, Harry had said. Well, she knew about that. Impulsively Desdemona touched the back of his hand. Whatever it was, it might be assuaged by a sympathetic ear.

He leaned closer to her. “If only—”

“Sorry, old man,” Harry broke in, his voice as bright and cold as a desert moon. Desdemona jerked away from Lord Ravenscroft, the moment of intimacy shattered. “Can’t do it in the next few days. Have to make arrangements to go to Luxor to see a man about a cow.”

“Cow?” Her grandfather and Simon chimed in with equal interest.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Well, then,” Lord Ravenscroft said sardonically, “I shall have to go alone.”

“What cow?” her grandfather asked.

“Just a cow. A … very … old … cow.” Harry settled back. He might as well have thrown a firecracker on the table. Conversation exploded around them.

“What’s this about a cow?” Cal Schmidt asked in bewilderment.

“He’s talking about an Apis bull!” Simon said to her grandfather.

“An Apis bull?” Georges said. “You know where there is an Apis bull? The Cairo Museum had one but we, ah, misplaced it. We could use another.”

With a sigh, Desdemona sat back in her chair. She’d been privy to this sort of fanatical conversation for years. It could be half an hour before conversation returned to another subject.

“These Apis bulls are rare?” Cal asked.

“Very rare,” Marta said in her laconic fashion.

“What do they look like?” the American asked.

“Like a bull,” Marta said blandly.

“I like bulls. Raise championship pure-blooded Brahmans myself,” Cal said. The rest of table ignored him, shouting demands that Harry share information with them. “But I sure haven’t any bull with a pedigree the length of the one you all are discussing,” he said thoughtfully.

“Excuse me, Miss Carlisle.” Lord Ravenscroft touched her arm, She looked at him with surprised pleasure. He, at least, had no interest in a bull, Apis or otherwise. “I am hoping to find myself a dependable, English-speaking guide while I’m here,” he said beneath the din. “Could you recommend one, Miss Carlisle?”

Desdemona looked at her grandfather.

“Harry,” he was saying, “you must give your own country first opportunity—”

“I say, Harry, if you have come into possession—”

“You realize, mon ami, that you must report any—”

“Can you help me, Miss Carlisle?” Lord Ravenscroft asked. His gaze swept over her, making her vitally aware of the rhythm of her heart.

“I certainly can, Lord Ravenscroft,” she said. “I would be delighted to show you the sites myself.”

“I shouldn’t compromise your valuable time, Miss Carlisle, but I cannot refuse your charming company. You honor me.”

“When did you wish to go?” she asked. “You really must see the Giza pyramids when the first light hits them.”

“Sunrise?” She nearly jumped at her grandfather’s barked query. She hadn’t realized he’d been paying the slightest bit of attention. “What’s this about sunrise?” he asked.

“I’ve offered to guide Lord Ravenscroft to some of the local sites, Grandfather,” she said. Around them the conversation ebbed.

“Capital idea. Capital,” her grandfather said. His chest swelled out so prominently that the other diners were in danger of being pelted by buttons exploding from his waistcoat. She could read his matchmaking intentions like a book, and she felt herself warming with embarrassment.

Sir Robert smiled. Marta smiled. Lord Ravenscroft smiled.

“Yes, capital,” Harry said softly, the smooth expression he characteristically wore a shade smoother, his gaze as brilliant and dismissive as a god’s.

“You know what?” Cal said suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention. “I want one of these Apis bulls. It tickles my fancy, the thought of me, a rancher, owning a three-thousand-year-old bull.”

“Does it?” Marta asked.

“Yup. And once I set my mind on having something, well”—he shook his head smiling boyishly—“I just have to have it, is all. I tell you all what. Anyone who brings me a good-size, mantel-size—Texas mantel-size, that is—authentic Apis bull, I’ll pay him ten thousand dollars cold American cash.”

Every table within a twenty-foot radius went abruptly silent.

“Did you say ten … thousand … dollars?”

Desdemona’s eyes glazed over. Harry was grinning like a fool; even Blake looked nonplussed.

“I did, ma’am.”

Ten thousand dollars would pay off every debt her grandfather had and even some he hadn’t. It would pay for repairs to the house, purchase first-class passage to England, a new suit for Grandfather and perhaps even a dress or two for her.

“For an Apis bull?” her grandfather asked in astonishment. “An Apis bull is rare but it isn’t that—ouch!” He shot her a wounded look and reached under the table to rub his shin. Enlightenment dawned in his eyes. “Sorry, banged my leg. Where was I? Oh, yes. Ten thousand dollars. Well, you might be able to get someone to part with it for that.”

She might be able to find that bull, Desdemona thought, and act as the handsome viscount’s tour guide.

She wasn’t the only one who decided ten thousand dollars was worth a little effort.

Georges bolted upright from the table and upended his chair. He backpedaled, stammering good nights before turning and trotting away. Her grandfather rose more sedately, his expression sharp with greed. “Ah, Braxton … be a good lad and see Desdemona home. I have a … a headache. Don’t want to spoil her fun. Good night.”

Simon, smiling and beaming, lumbered to his feet. “Ah, look at that time. Late for an old piker like myself. I …” He frowned at her grandfather’s quickly receding back. “I … Night!” He spun and hurried off, leaving Cal Schmidt blinking at the half-empty table.

“Was it something I said?”