The Other Guy's Bride

by Connie Brockway

  Miss Whimpelhall didn’t seem to take it amiss. “The army frowns on junior officers marrying. It distracts them from their duty in the field. But once they achieve a certain rank, marriage is very much encouraged as a steadying influence. Indeed, in the letter in which he proposed, Colonel Lord Pomfrey wrote that his general quite expected his senior staff to wed.”

  Ginesse smiled, albeit weakly. She wasn’t certain she’d want to be proposed to in a letter, and she definitely wouldn’t want someone asking for her hand in order to fulfill his superior’s expectations. But then, she was hardly in a position to criticize.

  “How did he advance so quickly? He must have proved his value in some notable way.”

  The seas had calmed down a good bit, and Miss Whimpelhall gratefully accepted the distraction, launching into a long and painstakingly detailed answer. Ginesse, who’d already heard most of her stories about Colonel Lord Pomfrey, continued picking up the room, her thoughts drifting to other matters.

  This evening they would be arriving in Civitavecchia and from there begin the final leg of their journey to Egypt. Once in Cairo, she needed to find some way, any way, to hire men and porters to take her out to the dig site—generally an easy proposition if one had the necessary funds.

  Her problems were twofold. First, she did not have the necessary funds, and second, the archaeological site where she planned to dig at was hundreds of miles out in the Sahara. Even if she did find the money, she stood little chance of convincing anyone in Cairo to guide her across the desert. No one in his right mind would risk endangering Harry Braxton’s daughter on such a dangerous expedition no matter how much money she offered them.

  Of course, she could always claim that she had her father’s blessing, but Egyptians were not generally gullible.

  No, she would simply have to bide her time, trusting to Fate and her own ingenuity that a way would make itself known. After all, she could never have imagined that while working as a glorified clerk for Professor Lord Tynesborough and transcribing a boring bill of lading for some ancient caravan she’d stumble across a spectacular discovery. At first, she hadn’t realized she’d found a clue as to the location of one of the Egypt’s greatest legends: Zerzura. The White City. The Oasis of Little Birds. Home to a dead king and queen, guarded by black giants.

  When she told Professor Tynesborough about it, he’d discounted it as wishful thinking and deemed it not worth further investigation. Then he’d invited her to dinner.

  She’d been vastly disappointed. She’d rather liked Professor Tynesborough, the youngest distinguished professor in the history of Cambridge University, and she’d thought he’d respected her. But he’d simply proved to be another man who assumed she didn’t know what she was doing.

  So, she’d quit her job and begun researching on her own. It took months of laborious hunting and cross-checking, painstaking investigation, and informed guesswork to finally piece the puzzle together, but she had.

  She didn’t let anyone know what she’d discovered, not her fellow antiquarians or her professors. And most certainly not her family. As much as she loved them, she wanted, no, she needed to step out from behind her family’s very long shadow and prove herself.

  Her father was the most successful locator of tombs in Egypt, and her mother was a linguistic prodigy renowned worldwide for her translations of ancient Egyptian poetry. Her great-grandfather, Sir Robert Carlisle, was the world’s leading expert on Egyptian papyri, and her oldest brother Thorne—though two years her junior—was already sought after for his expertise in ancient embalming techniques, an interest she personally thought rather disturbing though no one else seemed to find it so. And at only eighteen years of age, her brother Francis had recently been acclaimed for his uncanny genius in detecting forged artifacts—a talent that sprang, Ginesse suspected, from his skill at manufacturing them.

  And she…?

  The only thing she was known for was a series of unfortunate incidences in her childhood that had resulted in her being labeled a djinn and an afreet—Egyptian equivalents of imps and devils—and sent to a boarding school in England. Her parents had assured her it was for her own safety, but it had always felt like exile. She’d been an outsider there, a little too this, not enough that. Ever since she could remember, she’d been defined by her differences.

  No more.

  Henceforth her achievements would define her. And her first achievement would be discovering Zerzura. That is, if she could get there before Professor Tynesborough. A friend in the library had told her he’d been spending hours in the ancient manuscripts room, poring over the same materials she’d used in her investigation.

  Then her great-grandfather had written from Cairo. Sir Robert had convinced the director of antiquities to interview her for an internship position at the Bulak Museum opening later that year. Obviously, Fate meant her to uncover the White City. Then, finally, she would put to rest all the nonsense about her being a jinx, and rather than being a source of amusement—and, yes, apprehension—she would inspire admiration and respect. She would earn her rightful place amongst her celebrated family.

  “—a colonel after that, could they? And perhaps later than one would have expected. Though far be it from me to question their wisdom.” Miss Whimpelhall’s question recalled Ginesse from her daydream. “Oh? Oh. Indeed, yes. You paint a most dashing picture.”

  “Dashing?” Miss Whimpelhall echoed. “That was not my intent. ‘Dashing’ is not a qualification one seeks in a husband. But I am sure you already know this.”

  Ginesse did not answer; she considered dashingness to be a definite asset in a husband.

  “Oh, my,” Miss Whimpelhall tsked lightly. “I can see you disagree. I am loath to take the part of advisor, my dear Miss Braxton, but,” her unhappy voice dropped to a whisper, “I know of whence I speak. A beloved cousin opted for ‘dashing’ over ‘dignified’ with tragic consequences.”

  Ginesse was riveted. She leaned forward to catch every word. “Really?”

  Miss Whimpelhall nodded. “She became engaged to a man who was not what he claimed to be. Luckily, all was revealed before they wed.”

  “And the tragic consequences?” Ginesse asked before she could stop herself.

  Miss Whimpelhall looked at her askance. “Why, the scandal, of course. She did not even visit London the following Season.”

  That was the tragic consequences? She stayed home?

  Miss Whimpelhall nodded sagely. “So, you see, my dear Miss Braxton, how important it is to be wary of ‘dashing’ gentlemen.”

  Ginesse had never met a dashing gentleman. In fact, she knew few gentlemen at all except for Professor Lord Tynesborough and her father, who, for unknown reasons, absolutely refused to be called a gentleman. Frankly, she would like to meet a man whose first thoughts in the morning weren’t about dusty manuscripts, broken bits of ancient pottery, or desiccated limbs.

  “Dashing or not,” Ginesse said, “your fiancée is bound to be eager to see you. I imagine he will be waiting dockside, pacing impatiently, wringing his hands, his gaze fixed with expectant longing on every ship that enters the harbor.” She sighed happily. “And when he sees you, he will sweep you up in his arms and—”

  “Oh no, he will not,” Miss Whimpelhall interjected. “He would never subject either of us to so vulgar a display. Colonel Lord Pomfrey is most dignified in all things. As, I hope, am I.” Her momentary distress faded. “Besides, he won’t be meeting me at all.”

  “Oh?”

  “He cannot neglect his duty as commander and abandon the garrison simply to fetch me. It would be unseemly. And I would never ask it of him.”

  “Of course not.”

  “He has arranged for some fellow to escort me to him.”

  “Some fellow?”

  Miss Whimpelhall gave a little shudder. “Yes. Colonel Lord Pomfrey says he is an unsavory character.”

  Ginesse frowned. “I don’t understand. Why ever would your fiancée entrust your care to an u
nsavory character?”

  Miss Whimpelhall flushed at the implied criticism. “Colonel Lord Pomfrey would never—That is, Colonel Lord Pomfrey has explained—Far be it from me to question—Here. Please, read for yourself. Colonel Lord Pomfrey is so much more eloquent than I.” She reached behind her pillow and drew forth an obviously much-read letter, peeling off the final page and offering it to Ginesse.

  “Oh…I could never…This is private correspondence…” But of course, she could. Even as she was demurring, she twitched the letter from Miss Whimpelhall’s fingers and read:

  After arriving in Alexandria, you will board the train for Cairo. There, you will be met by a man named James Owens who will guide you to the fort. He is a tall, yellow-haired American cowboy with a most harsh aspect, but pray, my dear, do not be alarmed by his appearance. Though he is a ruffian of the highest order, he owes me his life and, rightfully, considers himself in my debt and has long been eager for the opportunity to repay it. He will be accompanied by a half dozen soldiers.

  A cowboy! A ruffian cowboy! Fueled by dozens of dime novels, Ginesse’s imagination immediately conjured up a hard-eyed, weather-beaten hombre in a black ten-gallon hat, a lariat draped around one of his shoulders and a saddle by his feet. Breathlessly, she read on:

  I would send a full contingent of my men to escort you to my side were I not entirely certain that such a presence would only serve to provoke the attention of the lawless tribes that roam the desert. Of course, should you encounter them, my men will deal with them with decisive thoroughness, but for the time being, I have been instructed to maintain as peaceful a presence here as possible. Therefore, it is with regret but confidence that I have enlisted Owens, who is intimate with the scoundrels who roam the desert looking for easy prey. As they say, “The best ward against a jackal is a more vicious jackal.”

  He was a scoundrel! How thrilling! But how dreadful for Miss Whimpelhall.

  You will be safe under Owens’s care, though I must warn you to limit your interactions with him so that you are not offended by his rough manner or uncouth ways.

  Now I must return to my duties. I most sincerely look forward to seeing you, Mildred. Pray do not wear anything yellow when we meet. I cannot abide the color. Perhaps a dark blue?

  Your servant,

  Colonel Lord Hilliard Pomfrey

  It seemed a rather flat ending for a man to have written a woman he had not seen in two years. There ought to have been a bit more…oomph. But then, she was hardly in a position to judge, having never had a suitor, only some educational encounters with the library’s would-be Lothario. She was simply not the sort that inspired oomph.

  She was tall and frankly athletic. Being olive-complexioned, she tanned too easily, and though tow-headed as a child, her hair had turned an unremarkable brown. Though her mother staunchly declared her nose “Florentine” in size and shape, she knew it was simply large, just as she knew her mouth was too full-lipped and too wide. Her only attractive feature was the color of her eyes, an interesting shade of not-quite-blue, nor-yet-green.

  Not that she regretted her looks. Her height and strong features made her look formidable, a fact she sometimes used to advantage when dealing with difficult people.

  No one, she thought looking at her patient, would call Miss Whimpelhall formidable. Despite the red hair. She had soft, small features with pale skin and light blue eyes, now welling up with tears as the seas grew rougher again. A jar rolled out from under the bunk. Idly, Ginesse picked it up and read the label…

  Oh, my. Apparently even the small glory of red hair wasn’t Miss Whimpelhall’s. Hurriedly, Ginesse tucked the jar of powdered henna into her pocket. The dear lady would be mortified to be caught employing cosmetics.

  “So you see, I am to be quite adequately safeguarded,” Miss Whimpelhall said. She added fretfully, “Though I do wish Mr. Owens sounded more prepossessing. I am a terrible coward. Not at all like you, Miss Braxton. You would deal much better with a man like Owens than I.”

  This was undoubtedly true.

  “Just look at how you convinced the captain to make that unscheduled stop at Gibraltar. I wish I’d gotten off then.”

  “Have heart, Miss Whimpelhall. It won’t be too much longer before we arrive in Italy. A few hours at most.”

  “Hours? I don’t think I can last hours.”

  “Nonsense,” Ginesse said bracingly. “Why, you haven’t emptied your tummy in an—”

  Miss Whimpelhall grabbed the basin. A long moment later she raised tragic eyes to Ginesse. Her lips trembled. “I can’t do this anymore!”

  “Of course you can, and I shall be by your side every mile of the way.”

  “Mile? Mile. Mile upon mile of…heaving…sea…Oh!” She gulped, sweat popping out on her forehead. “I cannot…be…on this ship. Any longer.”

  “Now, now—”

  “I cannot. I will not,” she said, sounding more determined than Ginesse had ever heard her. “I would rather die.”

  “But what can you do?”

  “I will get off in Italy and proceed to Egypt by rail and whatever other means necessary. Will you help me?”

  “Of course,” Ginesse said. “But I don’t really see how much help I can provide. You simply have a porter take your luggage from your room and walk off.”

  “Oh, Miss Braxton, you make everything seem so easy.”

  “That’s because things generally are,” she said with only a passing thought to the problem of Zerzura.

  “But what if the captain should protest my decision to leave? I am not like you, Miss Braxton. I find it very difficult to ask men, even porters, to do things.”

  “You don’t ask a man to do something; you tell him,” Ginesse said. “Males do not do well with choices. They want direction.”

  “How ever do you come to know so much about gentlemen at so tender an age?” Miss Whimpelhall asked.

  “Having six younger brothers has doubtless afforded me some insight into the workings of the male mind. Though honesty compels me to admit I don’t find it a very deep or mysterious realm. What do you wish me to do?”

  “After I leave the ship, deliver a letter to the captain. In it, I will explain all. And when you arrive in Cairo, if you would deliver a similar letter to Mr. Owens, I would be eternally in your debt.”

  “But what of Colonel Lord Pomfrey? How will you get word to him in…Where is he stationed?”

  “Fort Gordon,” Miss Whimpelhall said. “I shall send him a telegram—Miss Braxton, are you quite all right? You look most odd.”

  Fort Gordon was located far away in Egypt’s western desert at a small oasis. A small oasis not thirty miles away from where she expected to find Zerzura.

  It was meant to be. She had known it.

  “Miss Braxton?” Miss Whimpelhall asked.

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine,” she replied. “Just a sudden bit of vertigo.” Her thoughts raced wildly, arranging and discarding at lightning speed a dozen plots by which she could take advantage of this unique set of circumstances before quickly settling on one.

  “Miss Whimpelhall,” she said decisively, “you must let me arrange everything for you. I’ll have your luggage removed, deliver your letters to both the captain and Mr. Owens, book your rail ticket to Egypt, and arrange for your transport to the train station. And please, you must not even think of venturing into an Italian telegraph station. Nasty places. Italian men have such…busy hands.”

  At this, Miss Whimpelhall gave a little whimper. Ginesse offered a silent apology to all Italian men.

  “Besides, you don’t speak Italian, do you? No? I thought not. I do. You must allow me to send a message ahead to Fort Gordon on your behalf.”

  “Oh, would you?” Miss Whimpelhall cried, clasping both of Ginesse’s hands in hers. “I shall never be able to repay you. Never!”

  “My dear Miss Whimpelhall,” said Ginesse, smiling fondly. “You already have.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ginesse pressed her face to
the train’s window, her lips parting in a slight smile. Even though they’d entered the city through an unprepossessing and newer part of the city, it was still Cairo. It was home.

  Minarets pointed heavenward like slender fingers, while beneath them the round domes of the mosques glowed as smooth and white as a concubine’s breasts. To the south, the old city jumbled in fanciful confusion along twisting alleys and narrow, rutted lanes in direct contrast to the ponderous purposefulness of the European district with its orderly houses and wide, lebbeck-canopied avenues. The afternoon wind had begun churning dust from the streets and shaking it over Cairo’s head like a manic cleaner woman beating a rug, enveloping the city in a shimmering shroud.

  Ginesse threw up the window and craned her head out as the train slowed to enter the cavernous Misr Station. On the platform below crowded a mass of people: travelers waiting to board, porters vying for trade, guides shouting their credentials (mostly invented) and fees (mostly exorbitant), beggars pleading for baksheesh, and peddlers selling everything from iced lemonade to sticky buns.

  James Owens was somewhere among them.

  Her heart began to race. She had no cause to feel guilty about her impersonation, she told herself. She wasn’t only helping herself, she was also saving Mildred Whimpelhall from a miserable two weeks in the company of an uncouth American cowboy.

  It had been easy to assume Miss Whimpelhall’s identity. After the gentle lady had disembarked in Italy, Ginesse had sent a message to the captain saying that Miss Ginesse Braxton would not be returning to the Lydonia but would instead continue her journey by rail. She’d then taken all of Miss Whimpelhall’s luggage to her former cabin to switch them up, but before she could remove her own belongings, the porters had arrived to take all the luggage in the cabin to the dock. She’d only managed to snatch one of her valises. But aside from that small matter, things had gone perfectly.