An Egyptian Affair (The Regent Mysteries Book 4)

by Cheryl Bolen

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  She pouted. "I'm not exactly sure, but I'm sure it's important."

  "We have nothing on which to base our assumption that Hassein's behind all these incidents."

  "Nothing except his reputation for dishonesty and dastardly deeds."

  "But our only source for the revelations about Hassein was Arbuthnot. How reliable is his information?"

  "I will concede to you on that point. Sounds like another bit of poking needed for Habeeb."

  "I'd rather not vest too much faith in Habeeb's abilities. I expect a few questions addressed to Briggs should give us the confirmation we need."

  "That would be simpler." Her lips pressed against his cheek. "My husband is so brilliant."

  "Daphne . . ." he growled.

  She ignored his chastisement. "That Williams is tied up in all of this does point to a British connection."

  "But he is said to speak fluent Arabic. I think he's for hire to anyone who will pay for his filthy services."

  Daphne sighed. "He would have killed Rosemary, wouldn't he?"

  "It's very likely."

  "Oh, dearest, I forgot to tell you! Rosemary said Williams told her he killed Amal."

  Jack winced. "No surprise there, but what kind of cold-blooded killer admits to so horrendous a crime?"

  Her hand cupped his face. "I'm just grateful he didn't kill you."

  He pressed a kiss into one of her hands. "You had no worries. I'm taller, stronger, and more well trained than he." He frowned. "How in the bloody hell did he get the best of me?"

  "He did not get the best of you. He merely got away from you like the coward he is."

  There was that. His eyelids began to drift downward.

  "Dearest?"

  "Yes?"

  "What about Mr. Arbuthnot?"

  "What about him?"

  "We've never considered that he—or even Mr. Briggs—could be the guilty party."

  "I will own Arbuthnot is conceited, annoying, and pretentious, but I can hardly believe him a murderer. And he says he's never heard of or met Williams."

  "I don't care how big Cairo is. After all the time Mr. Arbuthnot's been here, surely he would at least have seen a fellow countryman."

  "But as I understand it, Williams often dresses like a native."

  The oddly melodic tones of the mid-afternoon Call to Prayer wafted into their chamber through the open window. They were both silent for a moment, even though they did not understand Arabic. His glance fell to Daphne. This daily Muslim ritual always transported her to a mystical place. A smile would lift her face as a dreamy expression would come over it and stay there until the muezzin was finished.

  After a relative silence fell over the city, she continued. "I was rather shocked that Lord Beddington took to his native dress so thoroughly that he actually wore a turban."

  "Frankly, I was too."

  "I suppose it must be what one does when one lives in the Orient. The French surgeon had also grown a beard and wore a turban—with trousers."

  "Speaking of the surgeon reminds me of how pleasantly surprised I was at how tenderly Rosemary treated poor Maxwell."

  "It was especially commendable, given her aversion to blood. You know she fainted?"

  "I did not."

  Daphne nodded. "When he lifted his sleeve away. Thankfully, she pitched forward—right into Mr. Maxwell's arms. After she regained consciousness, she vowed to be brave and begged admittance into the man's sick chamber. I thought she was wonderfully brave, and her presence there was most comforting. She feels dreadfully guilty that he jeopardized his life to save hers."

  "I will own I was astonished at the man's bravery. How deceiving appearances can be!"

  "He was terribly heroic. I daresay Rosemary's in awe of him."

  Daphne's lids kept closing, her honey-colored lashes sweeping down on her lightly freckled cheek. She'd force them open, but seconds later, they would close again. Soon she was in a deep sleep.

  * * *

  Rosemary was able to sleep just long enough to refresh herself before she awakened. She snapped up and surveyed her chambers to assure herself no intruders were lurking. Would she do this the rest of her life as a result of her harrowing experience the night before? She should feel secure. Daphne and Jack and Mr. Maxwell were all on her floor, and soldiers were guarding the exterior. Exactly like last night, yet they still got her.

  The very idea sent pricks of goose bumps to her upper torso.

  She was unable to shake a deep sense of foreboding. It took her a moment to understand this worry that gripped her wasn't fear for herself. She was concerned about Mr. Maxwell. His wound was so horrendous. She'd known people who died after sustaining wounds much less severe than his.

  She left her bed and attempted to arrange her hair in a flattering fashion.

  Then she went to his chamber and softly tapped at the door.

  "Come in."

  He was just as he'd been when she had left, fully dressed, stretched out on his bed. The dear man—as a gentleman—went to get up as she strolled into the chamber.

  "Please, stay down. I wish for you to conserve your strength after your ordeal of earlier today."

  He lowered himself back to the bed and frowned. "Perhaps you ought not to be here, my lady."

  He was concerned about her reputation. "Did we not decide earlier when I was not even half clothed that we would dispense with English standards of propriety?"

  The very idea of standing in front of him half clothed was not nearly as humiliating as she would have thought even a week ago. Now, such a memory unleashed a feminine power she'd been unaware she possessed. She found herself wondering if a man like Mr. Maxwell found her alluring.

  A week ago, she would never have considered that Mr. Maxwell had any interests outside of Orientology. Were scholars not stuffy persons who lived for their research to exclusion of all frivolous pursuits—including romance? There was the fact his scholarly father had wed and sired at least one child.

  Something inside her melted at the notion of this Mr. Maxwell siring a child, at the notion of Mr. Maxwell kissing a woman, the notion of him falling in love.

  A week ago, she'd thought of him rather as one thinks of an object. Like a stuffy tome. Or something that conveys one to its destination. But she'd never thought of him as a flesh and blood man. (And she really didn't like to be reminded of just how much blood the man had to spare.)

  She no longer thought of him in such inhuman terms. He had shown himself not only to be extremely intelligent but also the bravest man she'd ever known.

  He nodded solemnly.

  "I can abandon those strictures of Society when I am with you because I know you are a gentleman. You would neither attempt to take liberties with me nor would you ever reveal my indiscretions to another person once we return to England."

  His dark eyes softened. She noted that his spectacles lay on the table closest to his bed. "You, my lady, have not committed any indiscretions. You adapted to your environment—something intrepid travelers often do. And I beg that you never chastise yourself over the unthinkable offense that was committed against you last night. You are as blameless as a newborn babe."

  In that moment she thought she had never been so close to another person. Her thoughts kept flitting to the long spell when they had held hands—something she had never before done with any man. She had initiated the hand holding to sooth him during the painful treatment to his arm, but it was she who was soothed by the comforting warmth that spread within her as his hand clasped hers with gentle firmness.

  She would like nothing more at this moment than to sit by his bed and hold his hand again, but she was cognizant of the vast impropriety of even being in a man's bedchamber without benefit of a chaperon. There could not be any physical contact between them.

  She pulled the room's only chair up to his bed and sat in it. "I know it's not proper to be here, but we are both proper people who will not do improper things
." The mention of improper things sent heat rushing to her cheeks. And to other parts. "Because of all we've been through together, we must consider ourselves as family."

  A serious expression swept across his pensive face. "While I do feel protective toward you, I cannot think of you as . . . a sister or as a father thinks of his child. I'm not of your class."

  She nearly giggled at the idea he could think of her as his child. He was only a handful of years older than she. For some odd reason, she would rather he had considered her like . . . well, like Jack considered Daphne. "Jack's not of Daphne's class, but have you ever seen a more perfectly suited couple?"

  "They do seem perfectly matched."

  She laughed. "I don't know how we got off into this discussion. I came here because I'm concerned over you. I had to reassure myself that you're all right."

  "And now you should be satisfied." He sounded as if he wished to be rid of her.

  "The surgeon did say not to move that arm for several days. I'm here to fetch and carry and do everything I can to ease your discomfort."

  "That's unnecessary."

  "It's necessary for my peace of mind. It's my fault you were so badly injured. You could have been killed because you were rescuing me."

  "I will happily exonerate you from any blame in my little cut."

  "Little cut! How can you act as if it's insignificant? It's not, and I mean to see that you don't trivialize so serious an injury." Anger had crept into her voice. She stood and peered down at him, then spoke softly. "Forgive my outburst. It's just that after all the turmoil of last night, I'm on edge. I beg that you humor me and allow me to coddle you a bit. After all, you coddled me a great deal."

  "It's very kind of you, my lady, but your attentions have coddled me quite enough. A professor is not accustomed to coddlement. Is that a word?"

  She sat back down. "It sounds like a very good word to me. I think I shall be into coddlement fulfillment."

  He chuckled. He was handsome when he chuckled. Without his spectacles. With his dark beard.

  "Do you know what I've been wanting to ask you?"

  He looked apprehensive. "What?"

  "Is it correct to call you Mr. Maxwell? Are you not Dr. Maxwell?"

  A faint smile played at his lips. "I am Dr. Maxwell, but outside of Cambridge, I prefer not to use that title."

  She pouted. "Would you object terribly if I referred to you as Dr. Maxwell? I adore the way it sounds."

  "Far be it from me to object to anything you do, my lady."

  The two of them sat conversing agreeably until dinner was served. She discovered that he was an only child, which reinforced her opinion that his mother was into serious coddlement of her only child but which distressed her about his father's lack of interest in . . . the softer side of life. Were scholars so wrapped up in their study they neglected . . . the softer side of life?

  * * *

  Just before she and Jack were to go downstairs for dinner, Daphne peered from her bedchamber window. There on the bench sat Habeeb. And beside him, an Arabic woman. Had he found Amal's servant?

  Daphne nearly flew down the stairs.

  Chapter 15

  Habeeb and the woman stood as Daphne approached. As small a man as Habeeb was, he looked tall next to the petite woman dressed in black veils and robes. The woman Habeeb introduced as Amal's maid wasn't much more than a girl.

  Daphne expressed her condolences and asked that the woman come inside out of the heat. "I have a few questions I should like to ask her."

  On the sofa in the hotel's parlor, Daphne sat on one side of the lady, Habeeb on the other, and Jack stood by the room's closed door.

  "Please tell her," Daphne began, "that I believe the disappearance of Prince Singh is connected to her employer's murder. I hope she may know – through her mistress – something about Prince Singh's last hours in Cairo."

  Habeeb translated to the young woman, who nodded solemnly as he spoke. Then her black eyes met Daphne's. She could not be a day older than Rosemary. Daphne was gratified that this young girl had moved home where her father could help protect her against the evil that had taken the life of her employer.

  "Ask her if she may have overheard her mistress and Prince Singh speaking about why he couldn't see her on the night he disappeared."

  Daphne watched expectantly as Habeeb conveyed her question to the youthful servant.

  The girl nodded. Then she said something, something which brought a smile to Habeeb's face.

  Habeeb eyed Daphne. "She says her mistress explained to her the reason Prince Singh could not come to her that night."

  Excitement coursed through Daphne's veins. "And what was that?"

  "The Prince told her mistress that he had the opportunity to make many times more on a pharaoh's mask than the English king had agreed to pay. A man who was even more important than the English ruler was coming to his house that night to take possession. The man was so important, and the sale so secretive, that Prince Singh was told to dismiss his servants that night."

  "Was he not suspicious?" Jack asked.

  Habeeb asked the former maid.

  She shook her head and explained.

  "She said that this man was known to Prince Singh."

  Daphne's heartbeat accelerated. "And does she know his name?"

  Habeeb questioned her.

  "She does not know his name, but he was an Englishman."

  * * *

  At the dinner table, Rosemary insisted on feeding Maxwell. Jack could have laughed out loud. This man who in the presence of men was so bloody proud—and brave, too—was emasculated by a woman who'd not yet reached twenty.

  "The surgeon said you're not to use your right arm, and I mean to see that his instructions are followed," Rosemary had insisted in a most commanding manner. "You know your arm will not mend if you keep moving it." Then her voice softened. "I owe you so much, my dear Mr. Maxwell. Please allow me this one little indulgence."

  Maxwell was entirely too respectful of Rosemary. Jack understood. He'd once been rather the same with Daphne. Because of the disparity in their rank. But as they became closer to one another in the course of their inquiries, he learned to stand up to Daphne.

  He hoped Maxwell would grow a spine where Lady Rosemary was concerned.

  Once they were all situated at the table, and Rosemary was feeding Maxwell a spoonful of dates, Daphne lowered her voice. "We've had a breakthrough in our investigation."

  The others' attentions whipped to her.

  "Our dragoman has found Amal's personal maid. Apparently her mistress confided in her." Daphne said turned to Jack. "Did you not think the maid awfully young?"

  He shrugged. "She was likely the same age as Rosemary."

  Rosemary bristled. "I am certainly not young. I do hope before the year is out I will be a married woman."

  "Pray, Lady Daphne," Maxwell said, "is the maid's age relevant to our inquiries?"

  Now Jack did burst out laughing. "Leave it to Maxwell to bring logic to our investigation."

  Daphne smiled at the scholar. "Do forgive me, Mr. Maxwell, for getting off topic in a truly feminine way. Now where were we?"

  "You were telling us that the dead mistress confided in her maid."

  "Indeed she did. She told the maid Prince Singh was not coming to her that last night because he had an assignation with a man more important than the British ruler, a man who would pay many times more than the Regent for the Amun-re mask."

  "Did she know his name?" Rosemary asked.

  "No, but . . ." Daphne paused for dramatic effect. "He was an Englishman."

  For several seconds, a chilling silence hung in the air.

  "It's got to be Beddington," Maxwell finally said. "Did you not think it suspicious that two attempts were made on Lady Rosemary's life the first time we ever came into contact with him and his virtual caravan of servants?"

  Jack nodded. "I was thinking along the same trajectory."

  "That is why," Daphne said, unable
to stifle the smugness that crept into her voice, "I've sent Habeeb to Lord Beddington's."

  "Beddington's returned from Gizeh?" Maxwell asked.

  Jack nodded. "When we were speaking to Habeeb, our soldiers returned."

  "What, pray tell, is Habeeb to do at Lord Beddington's?" Rosemary asked.

  "He's to mingle with Lord Beddington's servants," Daphne said. "Specifically, I wished for him to discover if any of them have knowledge of that stone rigging in the Great Pyramid either the day before we arrived or the morning of our arrival."

  "I say, that's rather clever, my lady," Maxwell said.

  "He's also to verify Lord Beddington's journey and to find out how long they'd been in Gizeh."

  Daphne sent a wan smile to Maxwell. "Habeeb has proven to be exceedingly useful."

  "You're quite turning him into another Andy," Rosemary said. "Truth be told, I'm shocked you were able to leave him behind in London."

  Daphne sighed. "I wanted to bring him. He would have loved it, but the ship captain strictly limited the number of passengers he could bring."

  "Poor Andy," Rosemary said. "I daresay the lad will never be content to just be a coachman after all the exciting inquiries you've put him through."

  Maxwell eyed Jack. "I expect Habeeb's life will seem most dull after we leave."

  Daphne rolled her eyes. "I daresay poor Habeeb will be much safer. Conceive if you will, in the past four days we've seen one woman murdered, another woman's life threatened, and one blackguard Egyptian slain. Add to that, it is very likely that Prince Singh was slain."

  "We'd all be much safer if we'd pile into a boat and return to England." Jack might sound flippant, but nothing would please him more than to put these three on a sailing vessel. Either Rosemary or Maxwell could easily have been killed. Would Daphne be the next target?

  "You know, my darling," Daphne said to Jack, "that neither of us could ever let down our dear Regent."

  Oh, but Jack could. His allegiance to the Regent would crumble if it interfered with Jack's ability to protect his wife. Jack's first concern was and always would be Daphne. He glowered at her.

  "Really, Lady Rosemary," Maxwell protested, "I'm sure I could feed myself with my left hand."