From Cairo, With Love (Timeless Romance Single Book 1)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “Not entirely wise on an empty stomach.” Valentine speared a small potato that had been delightfully seasoned and baked. She ate it, feeling very sorry for all the other passengers who were unable to enjoy the meal. “My third eldest brother, Nathaniel, once imbibed entirely too much wine without eating enough dinner, and his behavior afterward was deplorable. And then, he was sick.” She grimaced and gestured at him with her fork, “I should think you would avoid it like the plague.”

  Chauncey, seated next to Max, overheard her and laughed. “We travel to Egypt, where there have been plagues aplenty, no?” He raised his glass and clinked it to Max’s, who regarded the younger man with eyelids at half-mast. “To plagues!”

  The others at the table laughed good naturedly and joined in the toast, while Valentine cocked one brow and shook her head. None of them had eaten much! She speared another potato, grateful, indeed, that she’d never developed a taste for alcohol of any kind. She would have nothing to regret come morning.

  Dinner progressed and Valentine enjoyed every course. By the time dessert arrived, she felt absolutely stuffed, but managed to eat a small bite of the chocolate mousse. The Trio had continued to raise their glasses to the plague, drawing the attention of a few others who caught the spirit and laughed, toasting likewise until everyone in the salon had saluted gruesome death. Valentine laughed and shook her head. She looked at Max, who regarded her with a light shrug and a wink.

  “But here—here is a man’s drink!” Chauncey pulled a small flask from his inner coat pocket and dropped a dollop of amber liquid into Max’s half-full wine glass.

  Max looked at the younger man. “What is it?” It wasn’t truly a question, Valentine realized. It came out sounding like more of an accusation.

  Chauncey grinned, “Are you a coward then, Gentleman Maxwell?”

  Dr. Henry eyed Max and raised his own glass, “Yes, Maxwell, are you?”

  Chauncey leaned across two people and dropped another portion of his manly drink into Dr. Henry’s glass. “To men!” Chauncey bellowed, and took a swig straight from his flask.

  Shaking his head, Max tossed back the drink. He then sputtered and shuddered. “What in blazes was that?”

  “Whiskey!” Chauncey crowed.

  “I have had plenty of whiskey in my life. That is not whiskey.”

  Dr. Henry also coughed, “No, it is not.”

  Chauncey guffawed and elbowed Albert, “Grown men, professional men they call themselves, can’t handle a little whiskey.”

  “Chaunce,” Colin murmured from Albert’s other side. “Perhaps—”

  Chauncey pushed his chair back and stood, “To the second class salon for dancing and revelry!” He announced it to the dining room at large, and a few of the younger set perked up while the elder passengers looked on with impatience.

  “You’ll be joining us again, of course,” Chauncey said to Valentine and Max. He turned to Dr. Henry. “You are welcome, too, old man.” He grinned, and Valentine decided he would be fortunate to survive the night without his face making contact with someone’s fist.

  Dr. Henry stood. “Of course!” He smirked at Max, whether in commiseration or challenge, Valentine couldn’t say. “Can’t very well let that go unchallenged, can we, old man?”

  Valentine scowled. “He’s been quite ill today, and—”

  “Oh my dear, we’ve all been ill,” Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale said, flicking a glance at Max. “We could all use with a bit of revelry, I’d say.”

  Valentine’s nostrils flared, and she felt her feminine claws unsheathe for the first time in her life. She narrowed her eyes very slightly and then smiled. “Of course. And as I was not ill, I suspect I shall outlast the bulk of you.” She stood and placed her napkin on the table, rather like throwing down a gauntlet, she imagined.

  The Trio chortled and crowed, and Max stood, regarding her with an expression she couldn’t read.

  “What?” She fought the urge to scowl.

  “Coming into her own,” he murmured.

  “What does that mean?” She looped her reticule over her wrist and straightened her bodice, feeling strangely combative.

  His lips twitched and he clasped her upper arm, his long fingers wrapping nearly around. “It means that as I am protector for both the contessa and you, you will stay by my side and not go sneaking off into any dark corners.”

  She narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale, who cast glances at Max as though she’d not had dessert.

  His words replayed in her head, then, and she looked up at him sharply. “You believe I will get myself ruined?” She dropped to a furious whisper. “Is that because I am a pathetic, country-raised maiden who has no inkling of how to handle a . . . a . . . an amorous gentleman?” She straightened to her full height, which still reached only his shoulder, and glared at him. “I am not fresh out of the schoolroom, Mr. Maxwell. In fact, I am rather an independent woman!”

  His brow creased and he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  She was instantly concerned. “What is it? Are you ill?”

  He shook his head and dropped his hand. “I am fine. It’s likely as you said—too much wine on an empty stomach.”

  “You had only the one glass.” She frowned and looked at Chauncey and friends as they loudly made their way to the salon doors. “And whiskey, I suppose.”

  “Probably residual from being ill earlier,” he said and moved forward, his hand still clamped around her arm. “The day I am felled by one glass of wine and a drop of whiskey—well, it doesn’t bear contemplation.” He glanced down at her and must have realized he was pulling her along like a child. He threaded her fingers through his arm, and she considered flinging herself loose in a fit of pique. Mrs. Willoughby-Buxom-Worldly-Glendale would sink her claws into him, then, and that would not do.

  They followed the ruckus down to the second class salon, where music already flowed from lively fiddles and flutes, and laughter filled the air. The room was large, beautifully appointed in varying fabrics and shades of green—perhaps a bit shy of the grandeur of the first class accommodations—but filled with people who had been sick and now felt worlds better. The mood was a festive pitch that rivaled anything she’d seen on the voyage thus far. She couldn’t help but smile—people danced, and several gaming tables were interspersed throughout the room for those wishing to sit and play. She heard the pop of a champagne cork followed by a roar of approval.

  Valentine was too short to see over the crowd, but Max was not. “Chauncey Payne?” she guessed.

  He nodded with a wry smile. “The boy does know how to lead a party.” He blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes with a shake of his head.

  “Max, are you unwell?” Valentine had very nearly decided to march her handsome friend up to his stateroom and demand he turn in for the night.

  “No,” he said and turned his eyes to hers, squinting as though attempting to focus. “I do feel rather fuzzy, however.”

  “Drunk?” She could hardly countenance that. Max was large, and used to alcohol by his own admission.

  He tipped his head to the side. He blinked, and then smiled at her, and butterflies took wing in her midsection.

  She suddenly felt the need to stick close to his side as he’d earlier commanded, but her motivation was now a combination of infatuation and worry, and had little to do with concern for her own safety. “I do believe it is time for you to retire, Mr. Maxwell.”

  He grinned. “But we’ve only just arrived. I am not drunk, Valentine; I know what drunk feels like.” He paused. “Nor am I ill. I feel quite fine, in fact.” A light sheen had broken out on his forehead, and he tugged at his collar.

  She cocked a brow. “You do not look fine. In fact, you look . . .” He did not look fine. She studied the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dr. Henry. He had also imbibed from Chauncey’s flask, and she wanted to see if he was also ill. She turned back to Max and withdrew her hand from his arm. “I must find Dr. Henry, but I will return directly. Do not
leave the room, Max.”

  His expression darkened and he shook his head as though trying to shake off the dregs of sleep, “Why are you searching out Reginald Henry, Valentine?” There was an edge to his voice that, she assumed, likely stemmed from his dislike of the man.

  “I must see if he is acting as strangely as you are!” She threw her hands wide in exasperation and knocked a drink from the hand of a passer-by. “Oh, mercy! I do apologize!” Her victim was a man whose scowl turned to a smile when he realized she’d been the one to assault him.

  “No worries, miss. I’ll get another one—perhaps you’ll join me in a drink?”

  “Thank you, no, I must—”

  He smiled, still, but narrowed his eyes. “You owe me.”

  She gasped in outrage. “I owe you nothing more than a replacement for your spilled beverage, and you’ve nothing to complain about otherwise because the alcohol is covered in the cost of your passage!” She moved away from the man who, thankfully, was swallowed up by the crowd, and reached behind her for Max, who was separated from her by several dancing passengers.

  “Val! Valentine!”

  “Stay there, Max. I shall return right away!” Valentine shoved her way through the crowd and followed Chauncey’s voice, which rose merrily above the din. When she reached him, she examined the faces of those who stood around him, hoping Dr. Henry would be one of them. She felt a sense of relief as the fiddle players stopped for a moment to take a breath and, most likely, have another drink.

  “Where is Dr. Henry? Did he retire?” Valentine was pleased to be able to lower her voice from shouting level to merely loud.

  Chauncey grinned. “Not precisely.” He gestured to a seating arrangement in a far corner where Dr. Henry sprawled on a chaise lounge.

  “He’s asleep?”

  Chauncey shrugged. “Some men are unaccustomed to late-night revelry.”

  Valentine frowned and shoved through four people who danced without music and another two who debated the merits of Tesla versus Edison. She finally reached Dr. Henry and dropped to one knee.

  “Dr. Henry?” She shoved gently at his shoulder, and then a bit harder, but the man simply snorted and turned on his side. “I wanted adventures, but this is ridiculous,” she muttered and stood, shoving loose tendrils of hair away from her face. It was oppressively warm and she unbuttoned the two topmost buttons of her blouse in an attempt to cool herself. If undoing two buttons signaled her ruin, so be it. She was too hot and irritated to care.

  “. . . a wedding!” Chauncey was shouting. “Each crossing the captain performs a wedding and this time we have no happy couple to celebrate! We must perform a mock ceremony of our own.”

  His pronouncement was met with laughs and cheers of delight, and Valentine couldn’t hold back a smile. He was silly, the entire room was silly, and they were, for one moment, a group of veritable strangers, happy to be free of nausea, let alone alive. She shook her head at The Trio, wondering if her brothers had behaved thusly when away at school.

  “Maxwell!” Chauncey chortled and the crowd cheered again. “He shall be our groom!”

  Valentine tipped her head to the side, her smile giving way to something much less pleasant. Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale’s ostrich plume was visible above the crowd, and entirely too close to Max for her liking. Mock wedding or no, Valentine was not about to stand by while that idiot Chauncey married the most wonderful man in the world to someone else, and especially if Chauncey chose that woman who eyed Max like a cat would eye a bowl of cream.

  She shoved through the crowd and pushed herself in front of Chauncey, “Leave him be, Mr. Payne. Mr. Maxwell is not quite himself this evening.”

  He turned his attention to her as those around them engaged in a light chorus of boos at her pronouncement. “I should rather think Mr. Maxwell is feeling just the thing this evening!” Something about his grin and the glint in his eye tempted her to shove the young buck against the wall and demand answers. “What did you give him?”

  “Whiskey, Miss Baker, I swear it on my life. Now, then, who shall be our bride?”

  Mr. Stewart, the art dealer, laughed as he lit a cheroot. He puffed it a few times and then pointed to his dinner companion, “Our dear Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale has given it a go, already. I say she should try for two.”

  There was a general roar of approval, and Valentine spun, determined to find Max. She shoved into a person behind her, only to realize it was the man himself, and she looked up at him. He smiled at her, the smile that devastated her very senses, and she quite melted. She couldn’t watch him pretend to marry that woman! She simply could not.

  “Mr. Maxwell is going to retire. We reach Alexandria tomorrow and still have a long trek ahead of us after that.”

  Alfred stood next to Chauncey, and his eyes widened. “She is correct! We make landfall tomorrow, and we have yet to see anyone given away in marital bliss.” He elbowed Chauncey, who lurched a bit and nodded.

  “Alfred, run and find someone to conduct the ceremony!”

  “The captain!” someone shouted. “It must always be the captain!”

  Alfred beat a hasty exit, and Chauncey again took up the reins in his quest for a bride. The widow nudged her way closer with a smile on her face that Valentine quite wanted to smack. Chauncey frowned as he regarded the woman with the huge plume in her hair, then burped and hiccoughed. “But she has already had a turn; I call for a fresh-faced bride!”

  The young man’s unfocused gaze landed on Valentine, “Miss Baker!”

  “I . . .” she stammered. She had to get herself and Mr. Maxwell to the safety of their staterooms before the entire salon passed out, Max included. He was no more steady on his feet than Chauncey, perhaps less so.

  Colin elbowed Chauncey and pulled on his necktie, knocking the whole thing askew. “No fresh-faced bride is going to tie herself to a thug for a husband. Select someone else.”

  Several people close by laughed as they heard the rude comment, and Valentine’s heart thudded in outrage. She remembered Max’s voice from earlier in the day, when they’d sat in the storm and he’d told her that no respectable woman would ever desire him as a husband.

  “I beg your pardon!” She reached behind her and clutched Max’s sleeve. “This man is the most wonderful on the entire ship, and you will apologize!” She shoved her finger at Colin, who stared at her wide eyed, and then blinked again.

  “Never mind, Chauncey, I do believe we’ve found our bride,” Colin said, and the room again cheered.

  Valentine attempted to quiet her fury and turned to Max, whose sleeve she still held clutched tight in her fingers.

  He stared at her as though mute, eyes glinting with something that might have been Chauncey’s strange whiskey, or maybe something else altogether. “Miss Baker, I do believe you are the first person to ever defend me so valiantly.” He smiled and lifted her hand to his mouth, softly kissing her fingers.

  Of course, she mused, the most wonderfully tender and romantic moment of her life would occur in a room full of loud, inebriated strangers while she trembled in frustration. She took a deep breath, and then another, as Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale moved into her line of site, her eyes suspiciously damp.

  “Here, you must have a headpiece for your wedding, pretend or no.” The woman smiled at Valentine, who stared at her in bewilderment. The widow removed the plume from her hair and tucked it into what remained of Valentine’s coiffure to a chorus of laughter and applause. She patted Valentine’s shoulder. “A pity this isn’t real, young lady. I would have given anything for a husband so besotted.”

  Valentine still stared at the woman and blinked once. The world had gone mad. Lewis Carroll’s book must have been based on truth, because there was a rabbit hole, and Valentine Baker had definitely fallen into it.

  “Here,” Colin clutched a fountain pen that dripped black ink down one finger, “I’ve drafted a wedding certificate.”

  Mr. Stewart, the art dealer, took it with a chuckle before Chaunc
ey could and looked it over. He puffed on his cheroot and grunted in surprise, glancing at Colin. “Not bad at all, actually.”

  Colin flushed with pleasure. “I’ve been practicing the art of calligraphy.”

  Chauncey took the certificate and reviewed it, tipping dangerously to the side before Colin shoved him back upright. “Excellent,” Chauncey said with a nod. “Signature lines for the happy couple and the captain.” He beamed as he looked up at Valentine, who stared back at him, and Max, who caught Valentine’s attention with a wink.

  “Adventures, yes?” he murmured.

  Mercy. If only . . . if only . . .

  The litany repeated itself in Valentine’s mind until her eyes burned and she closed them, feeling very much the fool. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t even wanted a husband when she left England. She wanted her cottage by the sea and her female boarders and perhaps some new soap-making supplies.

  Chauncey shoved the paper in front of Valentine. “Sign here,” he demanded, pointing at the paper that, she was forced to admit, was quite beautifully drawn. Swirling letters proclaimed the certificate title, the date, and signature lines labeled, “Bride,” “Groom,” and “Officiator.” Colin wiped the fountain pen clean with a snowy white handkerchief and handed it to her with a lopsided grin.

  She shook her head, her mouth turning up in a smile of its own accord, and signed her name to the paper. Max then signed his with a flourish, and she took the pen from him, finally allowing herself to feel the spirit of the ruse.

  Octavian? Octavian? “Your given name is Oct—”

  He placed a finger over her lips and shook her head. “Nobody else knows,” he murmured and grinned at her crookedly.

  She glanced down at the paper and then back at him. “Now everybody will know!” Octavian? For the love of heaven, what had his mother been thinking to saddle a baby with such a name? No wonder he used his surname exclusively.

  “I am trusting you to keep my secret.”

  “Max, but you’ve written it here for all the world—”