“She ate very little last night at dinner, as well. Even David commented on it,” Contessa nodded once. “Now go, and when you’re finished, if you find yourself fatigued, take a rest as well. Mr. Maxwell, accompany Valentine to the dining salon.” She flicked a hand out to Valentine’s coat and twitched it aside to reveal the day dress she wore underneath. It was a charming mix of pinks and, according to Eva, flattered her very well. Contessa nodded again. “Very good.” She motioned her fingertips toward her palm. “Give me the coat.”
Wordlessly, Valentine shrugged out of her coat, with Mr. Maxwell tugging on a sleeve when the process stalled. He took the coat and handed it to Contessa, who gave them a breezy smile and closed the door.
Max seated Valentine at a round table in the elegant dining salon and motioned to a server. He requested two plates with a wide sampling of food from the sideboard, and then took a seat next to the befuddled young woman. Further contemplation of Contessa’s odd behavior convinced him the woman was likely scheming to launch Valentine into mixed young adult society in hopes she might find a husband, but he kept his assumptions to himself. None of the affair was any of his concern. His focus lay in getting the countess and her entourage safely to the dig site and then, he supposed, he would intimidate the site workers with his boxing prowess until one of them confessed to stealing artifacts.
He appreciated the opportunity to take a moment to breathe. He wanted very much to kiss her. Miss Valentine Baker possessed a passionate side that ran deep, if he hadn’t missed his guess, and he envied the man she would choose to fully awaken it. He wondered if Contessa was wise in her determination to encourage Miss Baker’s socializing without a fully-guarded retinue of chaperones. Valentine was a woman coming into her own, as yet unattached, and lovelier than anyone he’d ever seen. Miss Baker was nearing her mid-twenties, if he’d understood Eva correctly; Eva hadn’t shared details regarding her cousin’s status as a woman approaching spinsterhood—indeed, many would consider her already arrived—but Valentine must have had her reasons because, as far as he could tell, she would hardly be one to go unnoticed, whether gracing a London ballroom or a village tavern.
Valentine’s brow was still wrinkled in apparent confusion over Contessa’s odd behavior when the server arrived with a variety of fruits and breads. He poured juice into their glasses and bowed lightly as he left. Max cast around for something to say, as Valentine was momentarily mute, but a ruckus at the entrance caught his attention.
Three young British lords, if their accents were any indication, laughed their way into the salon and requested food from the sideboard before looking around the mostly empty dining salon. Judging from their demeanor and appearance both, Max fixed their ages to be in the early twenties, and not a day more. Their eyes stopped on Max and Valentine, and he stifled a curse. Grinning affably, they strolled over and asked to join their table.
Valentine recovered herself enough to smile, “Of course,” she said, “we welcome the company.”
They took their seats. One young man spoke up and introduced himself and his companions. “I am Mr. Chauncey Payne, and these are my traveling blokes, Mr. Colin Drivens, and Lord Alfred Creeves.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Valentine smiled at the three, and they locked on to her pretty visage like fish on hooks. “I am Miss Baker, from Blumeshire, and this is Mr. Maxwell, of Gentleman Maxwell Salon fame.”
He groaned inwardly when the three sets of eyes ripped from her face and instead fastened onto his. They were struck dumb, and gaped much like the fish Max had envisioned Valentine catching.
“You’re . . . you’re Maxwell?” Chauncey Payne finally stammered. “The Maxwell?”
“The Maxwell!” Colin Drivens’ voice was hushed, reverent.
Max sighed and sat back in his chair. He glanced at Valentine, who looked at him with her lip caught again between her teeth—much as she’d done at Contessa’s door when he’d very nearly hauled her into his arms and kissed her senseless—and she raised a brow with a light shoulder shrug. She clearly saw his discomfort, but he could hardly blame her for not knowing he rarely introduced himself to any young British male below the age of fifty. Especially as the owner of Maxwell’s. They invariably wanted him to pose for a photo with them or spar, and it always left him horribly uncomfortable. His element was within his own training rooms, within the ring. Public limelight made him want to crawl into a dark hole.
“Gentlemen,” Valentine murmured, drawing their attention again, “Mr. Maxwell is traveling rather incognito, if you will. Surely you understand the chaos that would erupt if everyone knew his identity?” She nodded, drawing them in conspiratorially. Three mouths formed three perfect O’s and then nodded with her.
“Of course! Of course.” Chauncey Payne leaned toward Max. “We’ll not say a word. But I do wonder if you’ll do your fellow countrymen a favor? Would you spar with us? I’d love to be able to go home and tell the other fellows I planted a few solid blows on Gentleman Maxwell’s face.” He grinned.
“You’re assuming you would be on your feet long enough to do it,” Maxwell eyed the boy evenly but tilted his mouth into a half smile. No sense in scaring Mr. Payne senseless.
There was a long pause, followed by guffaws and general male posturing as the two others harassed Chauncey Payne, who took the ribbing with a good-natured roll of the eyes. “I was the quickest boxer in school, I’ll have you know, and I’ve not been out of school that long.”
“You don’t say.”
Chauncey grinned again at Max. “I spend a fair amount of time in your very establishments, my good man. I may surprise you.”
“I suppose we shall never know, as I no longer spar.”
Chauncey, Colin, and Alfred sat back in their seats, looking identically decidedly defeated.
“What rot,” Chauncey finally said, “and here, for a moment I thought we’d see a bit of fun on this crossing. It’s supposed to be calm as a lake—we won’t even have a good storm to liven things up.”
“Have you made this crossing to Egypt before, gentlemen?” Valentine asked.
At the sound of Valentine’s voice, the three sad faces perked up a bit. Alfred Creeves nodded. “This will be our fourth time, Miss Baker.”
“Well, it is my first. What sights do you most recommend in and about Cairo? I understand that is where I shall spend the bulk of my time.”
They all three spoke at once, but the bit that Max was able to decipher suggested the three young men spent inordinate amounts of time at Shepheard’s Hotel, the European gathering spot in Cairo, and in the city’s multitudinous bazaars. They shopped and drank, apparently, and then returned home, usually with a recently discovered relic from a dig site that had been illegally sold to a street vendor, who marked up the price and made it available for sale to tourists.
Dr. Quincy would have an apoplectic fit. His brother wore his ethics like a second skin, and took the business of archaeology, the science of it, seriously, reverently. Under no circumstances, Quincy believed, should artifacts be removed from the country to which they belonged, and he intensely disliked the idea of private ownership. He firmly believed that all relics should be available for study by everyone and not bandied about to the highest bidder.
As though thoughts of his brother had conjured up his nemesis, Quincy Maxwell’s most hated rival, Dr. Reginald Henry, appeared in the doorway of the dining salon. He looked across the room, taking in its inhabitants.
Max waited for the moment when Henry’s eyes would pass over their table, and, ah, there it was. The doctor’s eyes first narrowed, then gleamed with recognition. He made his way through the dining salon, and, rather than appear entirely without manners in front of his companions at the table, Max stood and shook the other man’s hand.
“Well, as I live and breathe! What on earth brings you to this corner of the world, Maxwell? Spreading civilized fighting to the Middle East?” Reginald Henry smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Thi
s came as no surprise to Max. It was his experience that Henry was anything but genuine or sincere.
Max smiled, and wondered if it looked as tight as it felt. He gestured to an empty chair next to his, figuring it best to keep his enemy close. “I am bound for a visit to my brother’s site.”
“Yes, yes, just twenty miles or so southwest of Cairo, is it not?” Henry took the seat offered and signaled for a server.
“Indeed. I haven’t seen Quincy in some time. Thought I might drop in for a bit,” Max said.
Henry’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled and shook a finger at Max. “You always were defensive of him, you know. He’s a man grown, now. Surely he has no need of your protective knuckles these days.”
“As I said, I’m going for a friendly visit. That, and to accompany the Contessa Bellini and her traveling companion, Miss Baker, to the site.” He gestured to Valentine, who was watching the conversation as one would a tennis match on green lawn.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Baker.” Dr. Henry smiled again, exposing more of his even, white teeth, placing a hand on his chest with a light head bow. Max refrained from snorting aloud in derision, but only just. Henry fancied himself a ladies’ man, and, while he was handsome enough, he did not possess the natural polish the Bellini brothers oozed from their pores. Henry, however, seemed to labor under the impression that he did.
Valentine smiled, her genuine, usual, unpretentious self, and a fissure of warning shot up Max’s spine. Reginald Henry would take advantage of Miss Baker without a second thought, and she was probably naïve enough that she wouldn’t even see it coming until she was socially ruined and heartbroken.
Max introduced the other three gentlemen at the table, and Lord Alfred Creeves nodded. “I know Dr. Henry; we’ve traveled to Egypt before on the same ship.”
“Ah yes! Lord Alfred! A pleasure to see you again.”
“Why is it, I wonder, you travel on this particular ship at this exact time?” Max asked him evenly.
Henry raised a brow. “I travel to Egypt and home several times a year, Maxwell, as does your brother, I would imagine, and this is a well-worn path. I am constantly amazed at the number of acquaintances from home I encounter abroad. This time finds me bound for Luxor and a possible new burial site to investigate. Then, I shall attempt to secure funding. I must confess to a certain amount of envy for Dr. Quincy. He has the countess to provide for his needs, after all, and she is most loyal. I, on the other hand, must find fresh benefactors for each venture.” He smiled and accepted a plate of fruit from the server. “Good man,” he said to the waiter. “You’ve seen me enough aboard this ship to anticipate my tastes.”
The servant, likely a British Indian, bowed lightly, palms together.
Henry turned back to Max. “Why does the countess now seek to visit the actual site?”
“She has done so before, on at least two occasions that I’m aware,” replied Max.
“Mmm . . . well, she certainly travels in good company this time.” Henry directed the last at Valentine, who returned his smile. Her thoughts were not evident on her face, however, and Max hoped she would sense the true nature of the man. He had known Reginald Henry since the boy had first tormented Quincy in their small village years ago, before Henry had gone away to school. But each holiday upon his return, he singled out Quincy, argued with him about anything and nothing, then, in later years, archaeology, and invariably goaded Quincy into hurling verbal insults that required Max’s intervention. Henry had, early on, dubbed Max as Quincy’s “personal thug,” a particularly nasty insult that referenced a native group in India, Thugs, who preyed upon travelers and foreigners.
“You gentlemen are acquainted, clearly,” Chauncey Payne interjected into the conversational lull around bites of a croissant.
Henry smiled at Max, “Indeed—our friendship stretches back over two decades. Quincy Maxwell and I are of an age, and quite often found ourselves on either end of an argument.” He paused, spearing a grape. “And fate seems to have tied us all together as Quincy and I both pursued careers in the archaeological field.”
With vastly different philosophies. Max didn’t say it aloud, but the differences between Reginald and Max’s brother couldn’t be more pronounced.
Valentine gently dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and offered Henry a smile, “As the youngest of seven, and the only daughter, I can well attest to the arguments of boys.”
“Indeed! We are a rather predictable lot. And where do you call home, Miss Baker?”
“Blumeshire. I reside with my brother and his family.”
“A lovely village, it is. But please do not tell me you never see your way to London? There are so many diverting entertainments for a young woman, and I daresay a roomful of gentlemen who would gladly squire you around.”
Payne, Drivens, and Creeves all nodded with chuckles and grins, and Max felt a sudden urge to stand and overturn the entire table. Dr. Henry was a wolf, the three younger men his cubs, and Valentine Baker would find herself prey before she knew she’d even stepped into the lair. The woman needed saving, and she wasn’t even aware of it.
For that reason, he stayed put and suffered through the brunch when he had no desire to dine with the obnoxious young men and even less with Reginald Henry. When the gathering finally broke, he insisted on escorting Valentine to the countess’s suite. He wouldn’t rest easy until he had seen her behind the firmly closed door.
Valentine enjoyed herself immensely over the course of the next four days. They followed a fairly predictable routine. She spent her morning hours chatting with Contessa, ate brunch with her “flock of gentlemen” as Contessa called them, strolled around the ship, had lunch with Contessa, and then wrote letters and read novels to Contessa in the afternoon. The late afternoons frequently found her in the library where Dr. Henry attempted to teach her the fundamentals of chess. After formal dinners in the first class salon, she joined “her” three young Englishmen and Max in the second class salon where lively dancing, music, and games occurred. Chauncey Payne consistently begged Max to spar with him, and Max consistently refused. Valentine was impressed with Max’s patience—she was tempted to spar with Chauncey herself, if only to make him cease and desist.
Everywhere she went, Max shadowed. She had lost the case of nerves that had rendered her speechless in his presence and relaxed, appreciating the easy friendship that blossomed. She found that, when she regarded him as a friend, she had few reservations in their communication. He didn’t offer many details about his past, but his casual manner invited easy conversation. She welcomed the affection he seemed to reciprocate in exchange for hers, which was entirely genuine.
She liked him very much.
Too much, perhaps, because there were moments when her heart cracked open just a bit and encouraged her to lean closer to him in quiet moments and gauge his reaction. He was a successful man, however, with life experiences years beyond her own, and she figured he likely viewed her as a younger sister.
If her face was a bit warm when he was near, and if she felt a twinge in her stomach when he laughed, or spoke, or sighed, or stood, or sat, or breathed, or ate, or scowled at Dr. Henry—well, she would have to squelch those reactions. No sense in bringing to a screeching halt a very nice association with the Most Handsome Man in the World.
Nearly a week into their voyage and closer to Alexandria with each nautical mile, the weather turned foul. So much for Chauncey’s prediction, she thought with a wry smile as she planted her feet wide on her luxurious stateroom floor and worked at tying the ribbons on her dress. The storm had cropped up in the early morning hours and was now demonstrating a fine bit of fury. Chauncey said they were to have perfectly calm weather for the entire crossing; he’d apparently been given faulty information.
For her part, it made no difference whether the ship maintained an even course or tossed violently from side to side—she’d never suffered from motion sickness and was relieved to note that, despite the erratic movement of t
he floor beneath her feet, she felt not a twinge of nausea.
The same could not be said for Contessa. When she went to her, the older woman was still abed, with a cloth on her forehead and a bucket near her side. She waved Valentine away, stating that she had her maid to help her, and Valentine should enjoy some time alone while death overtook the countess. The maid, Martina, saw Valentine to the door with a shrug. Martina was also immune to the ill effects of sea travel and assured Valentine she could care for the countess.
Grateful for the empty passageway, Valentine knocked on Max’s door. It was rather improper, she supposed, but it wasn’t as though she would enter, for heaven’s sake. She merely sought to learn if he would be amenable to joining her for breakfast. She would enjoy his company. When her third knock produced no results, she decided he must already be out.
Valentine found the breakfast salon empty save a small group of five sitting together at one table. The food was attended by a solitary footman who managed a smile for her although he looked a bit queasy. She wasn’t really hungry, not yet, anyway, as she’d become accustomed to eating at brunch, so she wandered about through a series of halls and doors, and out onto one of the lower decks.
The sky was dark, the water like midnight. She stared, fascinated, at the waves as they rose to pummel the side of the ship. A bit leery, but unable to squelch her rabid sense of curiosity, she wanted to see what the furious storm looked like from a higher vantage point. Was the sky rolling in clouds or simply one massive, dark blanket? Did the waves reach the top and splash over the bow? Had someone thought to secure the on-deck shuffleboard pieces?
Before the storm spent itself or she could talk herself out of it, she rushed back to her stateroom, grabbed her cloak, and made her way, slipping, sliding, and once falling flat, to the stairs leading to the upper deck. Holding tight to the railing, she decided she would huddle under the overhangs to stay safe. She climbed to the portion of deck that was walled on all sides but open at the top, allowing for normally bright sunlight to bathe passengers reclining in deck chairs. She wouldn’t be truly at the very topmost railing, but this would be close enough.
From Cairo, With Love (Timeless Romance Single Book 1) Page 3
