by Sandra Heath
Sir Julian’s dislike bubbled up. “Dear God, you are a mirror of your vile father.”
“Oh, I do not deny that Papa had his bad points, but it obviously has not occurred to you that it bay have been the result of being barried to a whore. One always has to wonder which cabe first, the chicken or the egg.”
A nerve twitched at Sir Julian’s temple. “Get out of this house,” he whispered, and Ozzy, sensing the intensifying atmosphere, spat at Randal.
The latter deemed it a prudent moment to comply. “Very well. I’ve had enough of these pleasantries, anyway. I cabe to test the lie of the land, and I fear you bake me very nervous, Richardson. So be rebinded of by fabily’s botto, Noli tangere igneb” He meant to say ignem, but Ozzy’s fur prevented that. The motto meant Do not stir up fire.
“Maybe your own fingers will be burned, or had that not occurred to you?”
“You are no batch for be.” Randal gave a mirthless chuckle that was stopped by another drenching sneeze. He blew his nose like a trumpet, then continued. “Your lips will rebain sealed because Abanda is going to wear by ring and grace by bed. Oh, and her fortune is going to fatten by purse. It seebs a shame to leave poor Tansy out of things, but she really isn’t worth having. But then again, plain and penniless febales often learn arts to bake them bore interesting between the sheets, so I bight bake her by bistress. To return your favor of the past, so to speak.”
“Lay one finger upon Tansy, and I swear I will—!”
“You’ll what?” Randal’s glance was freezing.
Sir Julian despised the other so much that for a moment he could not even bear to look at him. Tansy was the only child of his younger brother, Bertram, who had died two years ago, and she had gone to Constantinople to live with Franklyn as company for Amanda. Franklyn was with the Foreign Office, and until recently had been appointed to assist Lord Elgin, British ambassador extraordinary to the sultan of Turkey. Now had come the new post in Australia, to which his daughter and niece were clearly no longer accompanying him.
Sir Julian had never been entirely happy about Tansy residing with Franklyn, suspecting she would be treated little better than a servant. Her father, Bertram, had been something of a ne’er-do-well, squandering his fortune and leaving his motherless daughter with nothing, so that she was reliant upon the rest of her family. Sir Julian wished she had come to Chelworth, but at the time it had not seemed suitable because he was a bachelor, and anyway, in Constantinople she and Amanda would be company for each other. He had worried about her since she left.
Randal’s taunting voice broke into his thoughts.
“What is the batter, Richardson? Don’t you think I ab ban enough to satisfy both your nieces?”
Ozzy couldn’t bear Randal’s presence any longer, and loosed a blood-chilling yowl that made Randal start with fear. “Sweet Jesu—!”
Sir Julian barely trusted himself to speak. “Just get out, Sanderby, before I let him have you. He’s more ferocious than any dog.”
Randal turned on his heel and hurried toward the window. Ozzy immediately leaped after him, and Sir Julian had the satisfaction of hearing Randal’s frightened curse as he just managed to get out ahead of the tomcat. Ozzy was furious, and he scratched wildly at the bottom of the door until Sir Julian called him off.
Outside, the blustery night air swept over Randal, clean, sharp and tasting of salt from Chelworth Bay. He felt his eyes and nose begin to clear as he crossed the terrace and went down the wide flight of steps to the grassy, bracken-covered slope that undulated down to the sea. His steps quickened toward the woods in the narrow valley that formed the boundary of Sir Julian’s Dorset estate. There, in the winding lane that led off the road between Weymouth and Wareham, his carriage was waiting.
Behind him in the library, Sir Julian sat weakly at the desk with his head in his hands. With so very much in the past, he had always dreaded a confrontation with Randal, but never had he imagined it would entail the added problem of a match with Amanda. Ozzy returned to the desk and sat beside the fragment of papyrus, regarding Sir Julian in puzzlement. After a moment he stretched out a paw to pat his master’s tasseled nightcap. Sir Julian looked up. “Oh, Ozymandias, what am I going to do, eh?”
The tomcat squeezed his eyes and began to purr, which prompted Sir Julian to smile. “It is all so easy for you, isn’t it? Would that my situation were as simple. I cannot allow Amanda to marry that…that maggot! I know he’s right about one thing, however, and that is her character. She is indeed a spoiled, vain creature, and she will not take kindly to my efforts to dissuade her from the match. But I must try.” The tomcat yawned, and Sir Julian raised an eyebrow. “Well might you show your boredom, sir, but it is a very great problem for me.” His glance moved to the life-size statue of Isis that stood to one side of the fireplace. The god Osiris graced the other side, but it was only at the goddess that Sir Julian looked, for her headdress contained a secret compartment. In that compartment was Felice’s parting letter, written when the husband she despised compelled her to stay with him. If made public, the letter would ruin Randal, as it would have ruined his father before him, but Felice had begged her lover not to tell, and he had given his word.
“Do you think Sanderby knows about the letter, Ozzy? Do you think his wretched father mentioned that too in his diary? I pray not, for he is the one person in all the world who would benefit from the letter’s destruction.” Sir Julian looked at the candle flame and thought again of the Fenworth family motto. Noli tangere ignem; Do not stir up fire. There was only one person in the world capable of prompting him to stir up this particular fire, but the likelihood of that person being found after all this time was so remote as to be almost impossible. Felice’s reputation would therefore remain unharmed, and her letter a secret; but the letter would remain intact too, just in case the impossible happened. Then, and only then, would Felice’s good name be sacrificed.
Chapter 3
“Oh, Tansy, I’m never going to escape from here alive. I know I’m not! If the Mamelukes don’t kill me, the French surely will!”
Amanda’s selfish wail was almost lost in the windswept Egyptian darkness as she stood sobbing on the bank of one of the many narrow channels that fanned crookedly across the Nile delta. The Mediterranean storm howled and blustered, and the shower of hail and rain that had fallen after sundown gave the air a raw edge more worthy of the North Sea than these southern climes.
It was February, 1801, four months after the bitter confrontation between Sir Julian and Randal in the library at Chelworth, and Randal’s nineteen-year-old bride-to-be was a very sorry sight. With wet blond tresses fluttering forlornly around her shoulders, mud on her face, and Nile weeds clinging to the remains of her costly cloak and sapphire satin dinner gown, she little resembled the delightful creature of the miniature that had been sent to Randal. That gentleman could not have known how accurately he had foretold the hazards his bride might encounter before reaching England. Storms, shipwrecks, and pirates had already struck. Only the French remained.
However, although Amanda’s situation was unfortunate to say the least, her customary disregard for others remained constant. She was devoid of concern for her two female companions, her cousin Tansy, and Mrs. Hermione Entwhistle, the clergyman’s widow engaged as the cousins’ chaperone for the voyage. All three had been together since the naval sloop Gower weighed anchor in the Bosporus, and all three were now in the same plight, wondering if they would ever again be safe. A few yards away from where they stood among the reeds and irises on the riverbank, the felucca on which they had been abducted slid silently beneath the deep, sluggish water. There was no sign of the six pirates, who had saved themselves when the felucca first began to founder.
“Please don’t cry, Amanda, for I’m sure we will be rescued.” Tansy put her arms around Amanda’s shaking shoulders and tried to sound heartening, even though she too was cold, wet, and frightened. She was twenty-three, with short, dark brown curls, freckles, a generous
mouth, and expressive gray eyes. Her cloak was one of Amanda’s castoffs, and her mustard velvet dinner gown was as plain and simple a garment as her cousin’s was rich and ornate.
Amanda was too distraught to be comforted. “How can you say that? We were shipwrecked, then kidnapped by pirates. Now we’ve been shipwrecked again, and marooned in the middle of nowhere in a land overrun by the French!” she cried with a stamp of a foot that was always pretty, no matter what. “Sometimes, Church Mouse, I think you are stupid beyond belief!”
“Try to be optimistic, for I am convinced we will be rescued,” Tansy insisted, trying not to be pricked by the unkind nickname. Even now Amanda could not miss an opportunity to remind her of her less fortunate background.
Mrs. Entwhistle came to Tansy’s rescue. “Your cousin is quite right, Amanda. Of course we will be rescued,” she declared stoutly, although the look in her thoughtful green eyes was anything but hopeful. Hermione Entwhistle was about fifty, and had been described as embonpoint. She had small hands and ankles, salt-and-pepper hair, a button nose, and was the sort of person who kept to herself. Beneath her sodden cloak she was wearing a modest wine-red velour gown that had seen faithful service over a succession of Mediterranean winters. Although she never wore black on his account, she had been very fond indeed of her late husband, who had passed on some ten years ago. The only thing her two charges could say of her with certainty was that she enjoyed crochet. Having a dry sense of humor, she once quipped that she’d set herself the target of trimming every tablecloth, cushion, and pillowcase in the Levant. Tansy saw the funny side of such a ridiculous claim; Amanda took the remark literally, and sneered about it.
Now Amanda started to sob again, so loudly that her uneasy companions feared she would be heard. The pirates might be nearby, or the French, or others who would prove no more friendly, so Mrs. Entwhistle adopted a brisk tone. “Come now, my dear. We must not let ourselves be beaten. We have survived everything so far, and are here on the shore. I am sure that if we remain of good heart—”
Amanda’s foot stamped once more. “Good heart? Oh, you stupid woman!”
Tansy was aghast. “Amanda!”
Mrs. Entwhistle became flustered. She really did not know what to do with someone as willful, spoiled, and downright difficult as the prospective Lady Sanderby. For Tansy, however, she had a great deal of time, so she gave her a quick little smile. “It is of no consequence, my dear,” she murmured, shivering in another gust of icy wind.
But it was of consequence, Tansy thought, quelling the urge to shake Amanda until her perfect white teeth rattled. An impoverished relative could hardly lay violent hands upon the heiress of the family, much as it was warranted, so she said nothing. Besides, their situation was indeed critical, for although they had reached dry land at last, far from being safe, Egypt was occupied by the French. But at least the French would probably treat captured British women with respect, which was more than could be said for the Mamelukes, Turks, and native Egyptians. All in all, it had to be conceded that chivalrous help seemed a very distant prospect indeed.
If only this horrid storm had never arisen! By now they would have been well on their way to Gibraltar, from where they would have taken passage for England on an escorted packet boat, and in a few weeks be safe at Chelworth with Uncle Julian. Instead, the northerly gale had driven all before it for several days, pushing them far south of their original course. The women had been dining with the captain when the Gower foundered on the notorious sandbar at the Rosetta mouth of the Nile. Rescue feluccas had put out from the shore, but while the sloop’s crew was distracted by the shipwreck, pirates had snatched the women and sailed south into the Nile for the slave markets. Then the felucca struck something submerged in the water, losing her rudder, oars, and sail, and the pirates abandoned everything. Now the felucca had disappeared forever beneath the river, and there was only the lapping of water and gusting of the storm as it swept inland over the low-lying land.
Tansy tried to take her bearings. How long ago had the Gower met her end? How far upstream had the pirates brought them? In the darkness, and being so frightened, it was difficult to think clearly at all, let alone judge time and distance. The weakening storm racketed through the reeds, and choppy wavelets slapped the muddy banks of the river channel, which she guessed was twenty-five yards wide at this point. The land was gray and indistinct now, but in daylight it would be a place of fertile fields and rich marshes, filled with waterfowl and bright with every green imaginable. That much at least she knew about the Nile delta. Distance remained impossible to gauge, but she fixed the time at about midnight. Many hours of bleak darkness still lay ahead.
Then she noticed steps leading from the remains of a mooring place, and she turned quickly to see where it led. On a mount about fifty yards behind her was a ruined temple, above which soared the huge granite figure of a seated god or goddess that seemed to be gazing down at the three fugitives on the riverbank. The ruins were not entirely from the time of the pharaohs, for the immense stone walls had at some time been used to enclose a small Mameluke palace or summer residence, with a loggia overlooking the river, and long-deserted gardens of date palms and sycamore figs. It seemed that no one had been anywhere near here for centuries, she thought.
Suddenly the storm seemed to pause for breath, and the women heard sounds that struck them with fresh alarm. A bugle call sounded behind the temple mound; then orders were shouted in French. At the same time there were French voices on the river as well, and the approaching lights of a canja, one of the larger Nile vessels. Tansy gasped. “Come on. They mustn’t find us! We’re bound to find shelter up in the ruins!” Their wet clothes flapping unpleasantly around their legs, the women hurried up the steps to the ruins, but as they neared the loggia, a low shadow darted silently across their path.
Amanda stifled a scream, but Mrs. Entwhistle was quick to reassure her. “It’s only a cat. It won’t hurt you,” she said as she continued toward the loggia. Tansy smiled in spite of their hazardous situation. Only a cat? Amanda hated cats, and they hated her!
Amanda shuddered, but she quelled her loathing in order to follow the chaperone. Almost immediately she trod on something hard and metallic that rolled down a sharp incline into the overgrown temple gardens. Then some of the masonry crumbled beneath her as well, and with a startled squeal, she disappeared down into the dense, wind-torn oleanders at the bottom of the loggia’s retaining wall.
Chapter 4
Mrs. Entwhistle turned in dismay as Amanda fell, and for a moment Tansy was too startled to move, but then she scrambled down the slope after her cousin. “Amanda? Are you all right?” she cried.
Amanda’s tearful response was little more than a whimper, and almost lost in the storm as it buffeted through the surrounding greenery. “I think I’ve broken my ankle.”
“Oh, no…!” Tansy pushed her way into the oleanders and found her cousin sitting on the ground with her knee drawn up, rubbing her ankle.
Mrs. Entwhistle called from above, trying to moderate her voice so that it was just audible above the gale. “What’s happening? Is everything all right?”
“I’m afraid she’s hurt her ankle,” Tansy replied, kneeling to examine the injury.
The chaperone made her way gingerly down into the bushes, then knelt down next to them. She felt the ankle with deft, knowing fingers. “A slight sprain; no more,” she declared.
Amanda wasn’t prepared to have a slight anything. “It’s broken. I know it is,” she announced in a tone that brooked no argument.
But for once Mrs. Entwhistle was adamant. “Nonsense, my dear. It will be as right as rain in a little while.”
Amanda gave her a furious look. “How would you know whether or not I’ve really hurt myself? Have you ever broken your ankle?” she demanded.
“Er, no, my dear, but—”
“But nothing!” cried Amanda.
Tansy intervened hastily, keeping her voice low and level. “Look, this isn’t t
he time or place to argue the finer points of broken ankles, least of all in raised voices that might easily be overheard by the French. We need to find somewhere to hide, preferably somewhere well protected from the weather.”
Mrs. Entwhistle glanced around. “Well, we’re safe where we are, for these bushes conceal us very well and keep off a lot of the wind, but if it should rain again….” She shook her head.
“This is what I slipped on,” Amanda said through clenched teeth, and she brandished the object before tossing it away over her left shoulder. They all expected it to strike the solid retaining wall, but instead it flew through the air for a second or so, then rattled metallically on what sounded like a stone floor.
Curious, Tansy scrambled through the oleanders to investigate, and discovered a low entrance leading to a little chamber of some sort, small and square, with a ceiling barely six feet high. It was part of the original temple, and judging by the undisturbed foliage, it had not been used for a long time. “There’s a room where we can hide!”
Mrs. Entwhistle breathed out with relief. “Thank goodness, for I’m freezing!”
Amanda’s lower lip jutted. “How long do we have to hide? Until we die of hunger and thirst?”
“Until we think of what to do,” Tansy said patiently. “Look, the French are nearby, so we have to be out of sight come daylight. This little room is the best chance we have.”
“Oh, all right, but I wish I’d never heard of Lord Sanderby, because by now I’d be safely on the way to Australia with Papa!”
That made a change, Tansy thought wryly, for recent weeks had been filled with endless bragging about the wonderful Sanderby match. Amanda had always assumed airs and graces because she was an heiress, and the opposite sex appeared to find her irresistible, but betrothal to an earl had made her quite insufferable, especially toward her plain, far-from-rich cousin. Tansy served only one purpose—providing a captive audience to whom to boast not only of the match, but of various indiscretions with diplomatic gentlemen. And there were the written indiscretions as well, especially to Lord Sanderby. Not that he was any better, Tansy thought, having been obliged to read the craftily passionate letters he had sent to Constantinople. Amanda was convinced of his ardor, but Tansy judged him to be up to no good. For instance, why would he bother with a Richardson bride? The bitter quarrel between his father and Uncle Julian made it almost beyond belief that the son of one should embark upon an arranged match with the niece of the other. Uncle Franklyn’s motives had been simple enough—he wanted the kudos of a titled daughter—but what did Randal Fenworth gain? His coffers were already overflowing, so he didn’t need Amanda’s fortune as well.