by Sandra Heath
“Certainly not. That would not do at all.” Tansy smiled at her. “You have surprised me greatly tonight, Hermione.”
“Ah, my dear, just because I say very little and seem inclined to regard crochet as the be-all and end-all of life, does not mean that I am a fool.”
“Oh, I have never thought you that.”
“No, my dear, maybe you haven’t, but I fear your cousin has formed a very firm opinion on the matter.”
Amanda sighed in her sleep and turned over, and at the same time the wind stirred the oleanders. A draft breathed in, persuading both women to return to the floor to sleep, but as Tansy began to wrap herself as cozily as she could, she found something cold and hard caught up in her blanket. It was the object that Amanda had tripped upon earlier, and with the help of the moon Tansy saw it was a bronze figurine of a cat, about eight inches tall, with gold rings piercing its ears and nose; bronze or not, it felt oddly warm to the touch. There were hieroglyphs around its neck, so she knew it was very old indeed.
“What have you found, my dear?” Hermione inquired.
“Another cat, would you believe? A little statuette this time,” Tansy replied, then gasped as the cat they had seen earlier appeared at the entrance. It was a tabby, and it regarded them in that disconcerting way cats have.
Hermione saw it as well, then leaned up on an elbow to study the painted cat on the wall. “You know, they both look very alike. The fur is almost the same.” The cat trotted toward Tansy and nuzzled the figurine in her hand, purring loudly. Then it kneaded the folds of the blanket for a few moments, before rather impudently making itself comfortable to go to sleep. Hermione smiled. “You have a new friend, Tansy.”
“So it seems.” Tansy was very fond of cats, so she stroked it gently. “Isn’t it rather strange for a wild cat to come to us like this?” she said.
“Well, we don’t know that it’s wild, do we? I mean, come the daylight we might find that there is a village nearby. Anyway, that’s enough chitter chatter for the moment, my dear. We should try to sleep while we can.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Tansy put the figurine aside and lay down, wishing she shared the tabby cat’s ability to be comfortable on a hard floor. “You do think Tusun will return for us, don’t you?” she asked Hermione.
“He will do his best, I’m sure, my dear.”
“It’s just that if he doesn’t….”
“If he doesn’t, we’ll fend for ourselves,” the chaperone said stoutly.
* * * *
Martin and Tusun left their horses in a thicket of young palms a few hundred yards from the temple, then slipped across a watermelon field to some heaped mud-brick remains at the base of the mound, from where they observed the French encampment. Weary men were seated around a number of flickering camp-fires, and someone with a fine tenor voice was singing “Sur le Pont d’Avignon.” The soldiers were mostly infantry, with some carabineers, whose horses were tethered beneath a pomegranate tree. A number of Egyptian women were to be seen, some enveloped in black robes, others much more improper. Except for the French song, it might have been any army camp—but the British would have relaxed to “Tom, Tom, the Piper’s Son.”
“Well, they look settled, but are the sentries alert?” Martin mused, his breath silver in the cold.
Tusun shrugged. “Who can say, Effendi? They have marched from Cairo, and are very tired. May God send a thousand scorpions to disturb their slumber, and when they set sail for France, may God send a tempest to sink them all.”
Martin grinned. “Unfortunately, God’s tempest sank the Gower instead. Anyway, take me to these Englishwomen.” Tusun led him around the base of the temple mound until the channel of the Nile came into view, and with it the lantern-lit canja. Martin’s lips pursed as he saw its cargo. “Booty for French museums,” he murmured.
Tusun shrugged. “Why do they wish to have such things? Old pieces of stone and a few carvings? If they were to desire gold and jewels I could understand it, but not these ancient items that have no value.”
Martin smiled. “Oh, they have value, my friend. Believe me.”
But Tusun was far from convinced. He pointed toward the oleanders. “At the bottom of that wall there is a hidden room, part of the original temple of Bastet. That is where the English ladies are.” He shivered, and not just with the cold.
Martin noticed, “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, it is nothing, Effendi. You will say I am too superstitious.”
“Well, you are too superstitious. What is it this time?”
“A cat, Effendi.” Tusun shifted uncomfortably.
“Is that so terrible in a temple devoted to Bastet?”
Tusun gave him a look. “She banished them. There should not be a cat here at all, but the ladies said they saw one. It is an omen, Effendi.”
Martin regarded him. “Omens can be good or bad,” he pointed out.
“I know, but in my experience they are nearly always bad.”
Martin was curious. “In your experience?”
“A great black bird perched on the balcony of my room on the night my father died. I was the firstborn, the only child, and I know my father meant me to have everything. Yet my uncle took it all, and I received nothing. I am thankful that I am a true Mameluke, and always carry my treasures with me, otherwise I would not even have the diamonds I wear upon my head. The great black bird was an omen, a visitation by my uncle’s black soul.”
“Or just a great black bird that happened to perch on your balcony,” Martin said reasonably.
“No, it was an omen,” Tusun insisted, then put a hand on Martin’s arm as two laughing French officers strolled from the loggia and down toward the river.
Martin gave a sly grin. “They won’t be laughing when we take that canja from under their Gallic noses. If we wait until just before dawn, when they will be less vigilant, I am sure we can slip the moorings and be away to the sea before they even know it. The Lucina will be lying offshore, and if the weather holds like this, we can sail out to her.”
Tusun drew a deep breath. “You make it sound very simple, Effendi.”
“That’s because it is.”
Chapter 7
As Martin and Tusun were preparing to rescue the women from the temple, faraway in London Sir Julian’s traveling carriage was passing along the icebound southern boundary of London’s Hyde Park. Sir Julian was not alone in the vehicle, for Ozzy shared the fleecy rug over his knees.
Sir Julian looked out at the capital he had loathed since the time of the Society of Antiquaries debacle. Keeping his house in Park Lane was a pointless expense, he had decided, so he intended to sell. The proceeds would go toward providing two sphinx guardians for the pyramid folly behind Chelworth itself. The pyramid was about one-sixth the size of the Great Pyramid at Giza, and was quite a landmark from the sea.
While in London he also intended to examine a particular papyrus at the British Museum at Montagu House. He had written requesting a ticket, which should be waiting when he called. Several weeks ago it had struck him that the item at the museum was very like his own, so a viewing had become of paramount importance because he desperately wanted to be the one to solve the mystery of hieroglyphs. He had to be avenged for the lies of Esmond Fenworth, fifth Earl of Sanderby!
Sir Julian’s mind turned to Amanda, from whom he had now received a letter written before she left Constantinople, in which she admitted to the intimate correspondence of which Randal had boasted. “Oh, Franklyn, Franklyn, you have been sadly remiss in your daughter’s upbringing,” Sir Julian murmured.
He leaned wearily back against the brown leather upholstery and gazed at the frozen trees visible above the wall of Hyde Park. The cold seeped through him even though he was well wrapped. Were winters becoming colder? he wondered. Or was it just that he was less able to keep warm? Old age crept closer all the time. He sighed as his thoughts wandered into the past, to days spent in the beautiful countryside around Paddington. Poignant memories swept b
ack, and on impulse he lowered the window glass to call to the coachman. “Lysons, I want to see Paddington again. You know exactly where.”
“Yes, sir,” Lysons replied, looking back at a curricle that was keeping pace behind.
Sir Julian forgot the cold as the carriage drove out of London again and back into countryside. After a fork in the lane, Lysons reined in at the familiar gates of the elegant Queen Anne residence that had been empty and neglected since Felice decided to stay with her husband for her son’s sake. Sir Julian regarded the house. When his short lease ended, possession had reverted to the landlord, the Bishop of London. Why had the Church permitted such a prime property to disintegrate? He opened the carriage door and climbed stiffly down. Ozzy jumped out and disappeared through the gates. The cat would come back when called.
For a moment Sir Julian thought he heard hooves halting along the lane behind, but when he listened there was nothing. Imagination, he thought, shaking his head ruefully. “Wait here,” he said to Lysons.
“You shouldn’t go in there alone, Sir Julian. You never know who might be there.”
“Ghosts, Lysons, that’s all.”
The coachman heard something and looked back along the road. “I’m sure there’s a curricle following us, sir.”
“Anyone with robbery in mind could have apprehended us long before now. I will not be long. See to the horses.”
“Very well, sir.” Lysons climbed reluctantly down.
Sir Julian made his way between the rickety gates and along the overgrown drive to the house. Oh, Felice, if only you’d realized what an insect your precious son would become.
Pushing open the doors, which hung on broken hinges, he entered to find Ozzy waiting. The smell of damp and decay in the hall told how far the house had sunk from the days of its prime. Sir Julian gazed at the curving staircase, suddenly remembering Felice running down to greet him. How enchanting she had been, with her raven curls and gypsy-dark eyes. He glanced down at Ozzy. “I fear it was a mistake to come back here, my friend.”
Ozzy trotted at his heels as they returned to the gates, where the tomcat suddenly disappeared into the triangular field formed where the lane had forked. Lysons was anxious to be away from this place, and had already turned the carriage. “I’m sure someone’s watching us, sir,” he said as he helped Sir Julian into the vehicle.
“We can’t leave until Ozymandias returns.”
As Lysons resumed his seat on the box, he could cheerfully have strangled all cats. However, Ozzy’s decampment had a purpose. In the other fork of the lane he found the mysterious curricle waiting beneath a tree, its gentleman occupant spying upon Sir Julian’s carriage through a pocket telescope. Amber eyes glinting, Ozzy climbed the tree, then moved along a sturdy branch that overhung the gentleman’s head. A moment later the man began to sneeze. Sir Julian heard. There had been a time when the presence here of a Lord Sanderby would have filled him with dismay, but no longer.
Ozzy returned, and without delay Lysons drove smartly off along the lane. As the carriage bucketed back toward London, Sir Julian swept his pet into his arms. “You bad old boy,” he murmured. “Fancy making his lordship sneeze like that.” Ozzy looked up at him and squeezed his amber eyes.
Randal’s affliction was already subsiding now that Ozymandias had gone. The existence of the lovers’ house had come as no surprise, for he knew of it from his father’s diary. From the same source he knew his father had purchased the property, left it to crumble, and constantly taunted his unfaithful wife with it until her death from influenza sixteen years later.
Tonight Randal had been on his way home from an assignation when he saw Sir Julian’s pharaoh’s-head badge on the passing carriage. He had followed, curious about the old curmudgeon’s return to London. He knew Sir Julian had unsuccessfully attempted to turn Amanda from the match, so it was disquieting to find him in town again. Did it signify the playing of the trump card, the letter? Randal did not doubt the letter’s existence, and another friendly call upon Sir Julian seemed advisable. In the morning, on his way to the obligatory daily ride in Hyde Park, he would stop at Park Lane in time to put Sir Julian off his kedgeree, or deviled kidneys, or whatever.
Chapter 8
Dawn was still an hour away, and the moon still shone over Tel el-Osorkon as Tansy lay quietly on the floor in her blanket. The tabby cat was curled up with her, and neither of them was asleep. Amanda and Hermione were deeply asleep, but Tansy was as restless as ever, and the cat kept raising its head to look toward the doorway, as if expecting something.
Suddenly the creature gave a low growl, and Tansy heard the faint but distinct sound of earth scattering outside, then a rustling in the oleanders. She sat up swiftly, and grasped the bronze statuette, ready to hurl it with all her might. Again it was warm to the touch, when the air all around was cold.
For the second time that night a man’s shadow filled the doorway; then an Englishman whispered urgently, “It’s all right! I’m a friend! For heaven’s sake don’t throw that thing, whatever it is!”
Amanda and Hermione stirred but didn’t quite awaken as Tansy lowered the missile uncertainly, “Who…. Who are you?” she breathed, still very much on her guard.
“First Lieutenant Martin Ballard of HMS Lucina,” Martin replied, venturing cautiously into the room.
Tansy was alarmed to see his Arab robes, for she’d expected the navy blue and white uniform of a royal naval officer. Suspicion rushed back, and once again she raised the figurine.
He hastily raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “I really am First Lieutenant Ballard. Tusun has brought me to you. My robes are to fool the enemy. It doesn’t do to wander around in King George’s uniform; it rather gives one away.”
The jocular tone convinced her, and once again she slowly lowered the figurine. “You’ll never know how relieved I am to see you,” she said, staring up at him in the faint light from the door. He was devastatingly attractive: strong, darkly handsome, and—in circumstances such as these—all that a hero should be. His Eastern robes suited him singularly well, but she could not help imagining him in his naval wear, which she considered the most dashing and attractive uniform of all. She glanced quickly away, for an unexpected warmth had entered her cheeks. It was such a strong reaction that it quite put her at sixes and sevens. She was cross with herself. What a foolish, impressionable little idiot he would think her if he knew what was passing through her mind right now!
Hermione and Amanda awoke, the latter sitting up with a frightened start, her salt-caked golden curls tumbling over the shoulders of her black robe. For a moment her beautiful face was caught clearly in the moonlight, even to the incredible cornflower blue of her eyes. As she saw his Arab robes her lips parted to scream, but Martin darted forward and clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Quiet! Unless you wish to become a prisoner of the French!”
Frozen with fear, Amanda stared up at him, but then the Englishness of his voice dawned upon her and she relaxed visibly. Slowly he took his hand from her mouth, but he continued to gaze down into her lovely face, as if spellbound. His lips were parted just a little, and Tansy did not need to be able to see his eyes to know they were filled with admiration, for it was a variation on a scene she had witnessed many times in the last two years. Her cousin had made another effortless conquest. Lieutenant Ballard had succumbed, as did most of his sex, because even now, with her hair in a mess and her figure concealed beneath a voluminous black robe, Amanda Richardson was memorably attractive.
Martin realized he was staring and straightened hastily, but he still looked down at Amanda. “May I know your name? Er, names?” he added quickly, glancing at Tansy and Hermione.
Amanda decided to treat him to her most beguiling smile. “I am Miss Amanda Richardson, and this is my cousin, Miss Tansy Richardson. This other lady is our chaperone, Mrs. Entwhistle.” She made her voice soft and slightly breathless, as if affected by him as much as he was by her. She wasn’t, of course. She
was far too self-centered for that.
Martin inclined his head to them all, but his attention remained on Amanda. Tansy locked her hurt away, as she had done before when failing to compare with her dazzling cousin, but this time the hurt was greater…because the attraction she herself felt toward First Lieutenant Martin Ballard was greater too.
Tansy was not alone in finding Martin attractive, for the tabby cat made its liking plain as well. With a friendly “Prrr?” it went to him and rubbed all around his robes, making little sounds until he bent to stroke it. He was so easy and natural with the little creature that Tansy’s fate was sealed. He was indeed the most perfect of men!
Tusun scrambled quietly down the slope outside and entered the room. “God’s greetings,” he said, and swept a dashing bow to the three women.
Hermione smiled at him. “You brought us help as you promised, Tusun, and for that we will always be in your debt.”
“Do not thank me yet, lady. Do so when you are all safe aboard the Lucina.”
Amanda glanced past him, expecting to see more men. “How many of you are there?”
“Just the two of us,” Martin answered.
Amanda was aghast. “But that’s not enough! The French are everywhere, and—”
Tusun interrupted. “Better too few of us than none at all,” he said quietly.
It was an unmistakable rebuke, not the first the Mameluke had delivered to her, and Amanda responded with hauteur. “You clearly have no idea who I am. The Earl of Sanderby is to be my husband, and if anything should befall me he will be most displeased!”
Tansy felt uncomfortable. “Please, Amanda, these gentlemen are putting their own lives in danger to help us, so at the very least you should be civil.”