An Egyptian Affair (The Regent Mysteries Book 4)

by Cheryl Bolen

“Look, Dryden!” Maxwell pointed to the one o’clock position. “There. You can see the huge dome of the Pasha's seraglio.”

  Jack had vowed he was not going to go into raptures over the Orient as the ladies were sure to do, but the sight of an Oriental dome was no everyday occurrence for a lad from a farm in Sussex (unless one was at the Prince Regent's hideous Pavilion in Brighton). Jack watched with fascination as the dome that dominated the horizon grew larger and larger.

  By the time the ladies joined them, other sights peculiar to Persian countries could be seen. “I declare,” Rosemary shrieked, “do you see those camels? Could anything be more thrilling?” She whirled at Jack. “Oh, do say we will be permitted to ride a camel.”

  He rolled his eyes. “We shall see.”

  As their boat came into the harbor at Alexandria, Daphne, with hand at her brow to shield her eyes from the sun, continued to take in the scene before them. “Pray, Mr. Maxwell, what is the name of that mosque?” She pointed to the domed building that had dominated the city's outline.

  “That’s the seraglio of the Pasha. Were it a mosque, it would have minarets on its perimeter. The great Blue Mosque at Constantinople has six minarets, but I've never heard of another with that many.”

  Daphne's brows quirked. "Seraglio? You mean the place where the harem is kept?"

  "That is so," Maxwell answered, avoiding eye contact with the ladies.

  Rosemary, who had never stepped foot on soil that was not English, nodded with authority. “The seraglio was built in the 11th century.”

  Maxwell turned admiring eyes upon the young woman but was too reserved to comment.

  “You see, Mr. Maxwell,” Daphne said, “I told you my sister fancies herself an expert on Egypt even though she’s never been here.”

  “I daresay one can learn much from books,” the bespectacled man said.

  “I enjoyed your book immensely,” Rosemary said, not really looking at the scholar because she could not remove her gaze from the sights of the busy port city. “And that was before I ever met you.” Now she deigned to look up at him. “I thought you’d be a much older man.”

  "How old?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "At least fifty."

  Maxwell frowned. “I am attempting to determine if it's a good thing or bad that I'm younger."

  Rosemary shrugged. “I suppose it’s good. You must be very clever. I suspect too you were an awfully clever boy.”

  “I am sure he was,” Daphne interjected. “His papa was also a noted Orientologist at Cambridge.”

  Maxwell cleared his throat. “Is. My father's still alive. Not that I’m saying my father was noted. I shouldn’t like to boast.”

  “I would wager the father is not so terribly old.” Jack glanced at Maxwell. “How old are you?”

  “Six and twenty.”

  Rosemary’s mouth dropped open. “That’s terribly young to have done all the things you’ve done.”

  “My father taught me Arabic at the same time as I learned English, so I had a leg up, so to speak, in my studies of Orientology.” His gaze went back to the quay. Arabs in flowing white robes, bare-chested Negroes hauling grain sacks, donkeys, and bored-looking camels all contributed to the oddly discordant chorus.

  Jack noted that most of the men's heads were crowned with turbans. Somehow, he’d thought they would be wearing the head-dress of the Syrians and other Arabs, a few of which could be seen among the throngs.

  What stood out the most was the noise. Such wailing and shrieking he’d never before heard. How different were people in the Orient than those in Europe! If one person in any European city made such a shattering noise as one of these people made, residents would be running from their homes to see what caused such a commotion.

  Some Arab men were smoking at hosed pipes of considerable size. That was one more thing he'd have to ask Maxwell about.

  As they disembarked the boat, they were met by a smiling middle-aged Englishman, whose clothing was of excellent quality. “Captain Dryden?” he said to Jack.

  “Yes.” Jack's hand settled at Daphne's waist. “And this is my wife, Lady Daphne.”

  The man effected a bow. “I am Ralph Arbuthnot, attaché to the Consul in Cairo. The Regent has requested that we see to all your needs whilst you’re in Egypt.”

  “That is so very dear of the Regent,” Daphne said.

  “Pray, Lady Daphne,” the attaché said, “are you the daughter of Lord Sidworth?”

  “Yes, and this is also Lord Sidworth’s daughter, my sister, Lady Rosemary.”

  He bowed again. “I am your servant, ladies. My father was at Eton with your father.”

  "Your father is?" Daphne asked.

  "Sir Robert Arbuthnot."

  Daphne nodded, then introduced Mr. Arbuthnot to Mr. Maxwell before members of the Regent's House Guards joined them, after which they departed.

  “I have taken the liberty of engaging a dragoman to assist you." Arbuthnot indicated a small, dark-skinned man whose youthful head was swathed in a dingy turban while his lower torso was clad in something that looked like a short skirt. He was likely in his mid-twenties and was clean shaven, save for a thick black mustache. “Habeeb will put all your things on a donkey and take them to the hotel. There's another dragoman to serve the soldiers." He eyed Jack. "It’s my understanding you desire to spend just one night in Alexandria before traveling to Cairo?”

  “That’s correct,” Jack said.

  “You’ll be wanting to eat. Decent European food can be procured at the hotel where you’ll be staying, but I daresay that while you’re in Egypt, you’ll learn to eat some of the native food.”

  “I cannot wait,” Rosemary said.

  “My sister fancies herself enamored of all things Oriental,” Daphne explained.

  “I wish you’d join us for dinner," Jack said to Arbuthnot. "I am curious about several matters which I am sure you will be able to satisfy,” Jack said.

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  * * *

  “This may be your last meal for a while in which you sit at table,” Mr. Arbuthnot said as the five of them sat down to their evening meal.

  Finally, the reticent Mr. Maxwell spoke. “Yes, you will become accustomed to sitting on cushions and eating with your fingers—only on the right hand.”

  Daphne noticed that Rosemary turned up her nose at the notion of eating with her fingers. Perhaps her sister would learn that not all things in the Orient were as lovely as their exotic silks.

  Once the boiled mutton was served, Jack began to query Mr. Arbuthnot. “Have you been apprised of the nature of our visit?”

  Daphne, who normally wasn’t given to taking notice of clothing, observed that Mr. Arbuthnot’s clothing was very fine. Though, sadly, it mattered not what the gentleman wore. The finest clothing ever constructed could not make the balding man handsome. He must be fifty, but she had learned he'd never married. It was such a pity that appearances played so heavy a role in courtship. (Except with dearest Jack, who cared not that she was no beauty.)

  She found herself wondering why anyone in this infernally hot climate would persist in dressing in fashionable English clothing. She would be most happy to shed her attire in favor of the skimpy costume of the Arabian dancing girls she’d seen in pictures. Even if great expanses of her flesh showed.

  “I have some idea,” Mr. Arbuthnot said. “I believe the Regent outlined the situation to the Consul. That would be Mr. Briggs. I seem to recall something about a missing artifact and some missing Indian prince, I believe.”

  Her brows lowered. “Then you don’t know Prince Edward Duleep Singh?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Do you think the Consul knew him?”

  “That I couldn’t say.” He gobbled down a handful of fresh fruit and made no effort to wipe his hands after he devoured the juicy offerings.

  English table manners were apparently tossed aside whilst living on foreign soil, Daphne decided. Still, it would be very difficult for h
er to ever eat with her hands. Too fresh was the memory of her governess rapping at Daphne's fingers whenever she did not hold a fork properly. “I would advise you to withhold the information that you are in Egypt to recover valuable antiquities," Mr. Arbuthnot said to Jack. "It would be far better to portray yourselves as tourists—or,” he turned to face Mr. Maxwell, “Orientologists.”

  “Why?” Jack asked.

  “If it’s known you’re on a mission for the Prince Regent, people will assume you have come with a lot of money. And . . .” He lowered his voice. “There are many men in Cairo who would slit your throat for five guineas.”

  “That settles it,” Jack thundered, glaring at Daphne. “I hadn’t wanted to bring my wife and her sister in the first place. I’ll not put them at risk." He glared at Daphne. "We will not disclose the nature of our investigation to anyone. Is that clear?”

  She nodded somberly.

  His gaze swung to Rosemary, who also nodded.

  “Tell me, Mr. Arbuthnot,” Daphne said, “do you conduct your duties in Alexandria or in Cairo?”

  “Cairo's where I make my home, but I am frequently summoned to be rather a tour guide for important British citizens. Many times I've travelled along the Nile and have journeyed as far as the first cataract.”

  “Pray, sir, what is a cataract?” Daphne asked, brows hiked in query.

  “A cataract is a place in the river where huge rocks disrupt the peaceful flow of water,” Mr. Arbuthnot said. "There are said to be six on the Nile, but as you know, the Nile is the longest river in the world."

  “The first cataract is even farther from here than Thebes.” Rosemary directed a beseeching look at Jack. “I do hope we’ll be able to go to Thebes and the Valley of the Kings—dead kings.”

  Daphne shuddered. “I fail to see why anyone would want to see a valley of dead people.”

  Mr. Maxwell chuckled, then begged Daphne's forgiveness. “It’s not what you think, my lady. Were you to go to the Valley of the Kings, it is unlikely you would see a single dead body. The valley is ringed with mountains, and in these mountains are many caves. It was these caves that served as royal burial chambers for four-hundred years. Pharaohs were secretly buried there beginning more than three-thousand years ago."

  Jack looked sternly upon Rosemary. “Despite that we'll be identifying ourselves as tourists, we have come here for one purpose and one purpose only.”

  His sister-in-law nodded meekly.

  Daphne sighed. Jack was always so stodgy, so inflexible, so single-minded. But one way or another she was going to see to it that before they returned to England, Rosemary would get to see Thebes. And that blasted Valley of the Dead Kings.

  Daphne knew she must change the topic of conversation because Jack was in one of his beastly didactic moods. But the only thing she could think to remark upon was the nasty weather. “A pity we couldn’t have come two months earlier. I daresay the weather would have been far more pleasant in the spring.”

  Despite that a young Negro boy fanned over their table with long plumes, Mr. Arbuthnot nodded as he wiped prodigious amounts of perspiration from his brow with his table napkin. “It distresses me to have to tell you that Alexandria is much cooler than Cairo—or Upper Egypt—because of its sea breezes." His frown pulled down his already heavily jowled face. "I cannot deny that it is sometimes an almost unbearable heat.”

  “It’s not that uncomfortable,” Mr. Maxwell said, “if one can manage to stay out of the sun.”

  Rosemary turned to the Orientologist. “But, Mr. Maxwell, did you not join caravans across the desert in the summer?”

  He nodded solemnly. “I did, and I will own, it does get beastly uncomfortable. It is helpful, though, if one dresses as the Arabs dress.”

  “Did you kohl your eyes to protect them like the Bedouins do?” Rosemary asked.

  “I did.”

  “I suppose it’s a very good thing you’re not as fair as Rosemary and I, for I daresay so many days under the boiling sun could have blistered away your skin.”

  Rosemary was even fairer than Daphne. In fact, the two sisters could not be more dissimilar—and not just because Daphne was tall, skinny, and bespectacled, and Rosemary was petite and curvy. Everything about them was different. Daphne deplored fashion; Rosemary adored pretty dresses and everything that went with them. Daphne was possessed of excessively curly, very dark blonde hair, and Rosemary's hair was pale blonde, gently curled, and always in the latest fashion.

  Daphne was well aware of her own shortcomings. The only two men to ever admire anything about her appearance were her father and her husband, while everyone found Rosemary quite pretty.

  The lone trait the sisters had in common was a high degree of intelligence.

  Mr. Maxwell smiled. “I was told that without my spectacles I could pass for a native—though my skin was much darker then, because of the sun exposure.”

  “And the beard you then wore,” Rosemary said, grimacing. “I dislike beards.”

  Daphne could not resist a tease. “What if Captain Cooper has grown a beard?”

  Her sister sighed. “If any man could wear one well, it would be my captain.”

  Daphne cringed at the thought of that odious flirt being Rosemary’s.

  “I cannot think the wearing of a turban very cool,” Jack said.

  Mr. Arbuthnot shook his head. "Nor can I."

  “I shouldn’t at all mind wearing the native dress,” Daphne said. “In fact, in this heat I would have no objections to wearing dancing girls’ costumes.”

  Mr. Arbuthnot nearly spit out his food. Mr. Maxwell went stiff and stared into his lap. Jack's eyes slitted and his lips tightened. “My wife will most certainly not dress as a dancing girl!”

  “Really, my lady,” Mr. Arbuthnot said, his voice tentative. “It wouldn’t at all be the thing. I shouldn’t like to bring up so indelicate a topic in the presence of a maiden, but dancing girls are noted for showering other favors upon the gentlemen who admire them.”

  Rosemary blushed. Mr. Maxwell, nodding slightly, continued staring into his lap.

  Mr. Arbuthnot, having cleaned his plate, reached to the center of the table and with his bare hands scooped out a heaping handful of olives.

  Then he steered the talk away from bare-skinned strumpets. “I suggest you be early to bed tonight because we leave at dawn.”

  “How long is the journey to Cairo?”

  Mr. Arbuthnot shrugged. “It depends upon the winds. Five days, average.”

  “Will we go near Fort Rached?” Rosemary inquired. “I’m not precisely sure where Captain Cooper is at this time, but he could very well be at Fort Rached. How delightful it would be to see him!”

  “We will not be stopping at Fort Rached,” Mr. Arbuthnot said.

  Rosemary frowned.

  If the self-centered, insensitive Captain Conceited possessed half the attributes Rosemary heaped upon him, she would never have met him (and Daphne would not have had to suffer his praises), for the man would be a heavenly Deity.

  When the meal was over, Jack came to stand at his wife’s chair. “Time for bed, love.” Her husband’s voice had softened considerably.

  She knew very well how to read this man she’d married, and that voice meant he had romantic notions. She went all buttery inside. How exciting it would be to make love under Egyptian moonlight.

  * * *

  The first thing she did when they went upstairs to their rather austere bedchamber was shed the sweaty clothing. “Pray, love,” she said as she backed into Jack. “Unlace my stays. I have to divest myself of them! I feel as if they've melted into my flesh.”

  Dear Jack could never unlace her stays without cupping his hands over each of her exceedingly modest breasts. Her breath coming more quickly, she said in a husky voice, “Douse the candle.”

  Her husband, who had already removed his heavy coat and waistcoat, obliged.

  Taking her husband’s hand, she padded barefoot to the open window screened with lattice.
The two of them stood there, surveying the exotic city beneath the moon’s glow, Daphne’s back nestled into Jack, and his arms encircled her. “I cannot believe we’re here in the Orient, my darling. Is it not magical?”

  Behind the gates that closed each night, the city had grown so much quieter. She heard the meow of the cats foraging for food, the lone clop of a donkey, men's muted laughter far in the distance. Minarets scattered about the city soared into the softly moonlit sky.

  He nibbled at her neck. “It is rather.”

  To make the scene complete perfection, the melodious tones of the Arabic Call to Prayer began to ring from every minaret in Alexandria.

  "The Isha," Jack said. "The day's final Call to Prayer."

  The two of them stood there spellbound until the city went silent again, then they went to their white bed and lifted away the mosquito netting. Jack drew her into his arms. “I mean to collect favors from this most intoxicating aspiring dancing girl.”

  Chapter 2

  “We must praise Allah for the shade,” Daphne said as she sat beneath a white cloth canopy on the deck of their felucca the following afternoon as they sailed slowly along the yellowed waters of the Nile. When they’d left Alexandria early that morning, there had been a tolerable wind, but it was as absent now as that city’s silhouette with its graceful minarets reaching toward the heavens. Now their boat barely moved. It would not have moved at all were it not for the bronzed Egyptian crew members powering their oars into the placid water.

  Trailing their felucca was an identical one carrying the Regent’s House Guards, one of them always standing at watch with orders not to let Captain Dryden’s party from their sight.

  “Ah, but my lady, you must enjoy this whilst you can,” said Mr. Arbuthnot as he blotted his drenched forehead with a massive handkerchief. “It’s always cooler on water than it is in the desert.”

  Jack bit back a retort. The man was possessed of a propensity to remark on the bloody obvious. Did he think none of them had ever read a blasted book about the Arabian desert? Arbuthnot was well-meaning and attempted to be helpful, but his incessant elucidations were growing tedious.