by Louise Allen
‘If you still want to go.’ As though he would give her a choice, he thought with a stab of conscience. There was no way he could be open with her now, she would refuse to go with him if she suspected that her destiny had been neatly arranged, he was certain of it. It is for her own good. ‘Oh, and Sir James would be pleased if you and Sir Philip would join him for dinner this evening.’
* * *
The door closed gently behind Quin. The air stirred in the draught, dust moved in the light from the windows. It was hot and quiet and suddenly, quite empty.
He will take me to England. He begins to make love to me and then he loses interest. He is kind—and then he is...not. I want him, but he, it seems, does not want me, even after he had undressed me, even after I had thrown myself at him.
But what do I know of men? I thought Thierry loved me. I believed the French general wanted to help us. I trusted Laurent and all the time he was using us. I am not able to read men at all. All I know is that they will use me for what they want and tell me what they think I want to hear in order to do so.
Cleo got out of bed and went to the closet to dip her sore hand into the water jug. Why had she hit out at Quin? She couldn’t remember now. Thierry would have struck back, but not Quin, the English gentleman. The diplomat. The liar she could not trust.
But surely he would not tell me he would take me to England and not mean it? He would have nothing to gain from that. Cleo found the arnica in her medicine box and soaked a handkerchief in it before she bandaged it on to her hand.
England. Independence. And no money to live on. Cleo took her notebook from the bag, sat down at the table and made herself think about something other than a man with blue eyes, a wicked mouth, broad shoulders and an unreadable mind. There must be something I can do that someone in England might want to employ me for.
* * *
Ensign Lloyd came to fetch her for dinner. ‘The private stationed at your door will escort you anywhere you would like to walk tomorrow,’ he said and waved a hand vaguely at the encampment. ‘There isn’t much to see, I’m afraid.’
‘So I am no longer a prisoner?’
‘It was protective custody, ma’am,’ he said, colouring up.
He showed her into another part of the house where she had met Sir James that morning, a long room, whitewashed and carpeted with layers of colourful rugs. The table was covered in a pristine cloth and two men in white turbans, trousers and tunics with coloured sashes were laying it with six places.
Cleo took a deep breath, managed not to look around for Quin, and walked in.
‘Madame Valsac.’ Sir James came forward and shook hands. When she looked up she saw Quin behind him with two other men, one in uniform. They bowed. Her father, who had been holding forth to the civilian stranger about hieroglyphs, turned, frowned and nodded at her.
The men were all immaculately turned out. The officer was in what was obviously dress uniform. The other men wore swallow-tailed coats, knee breeches and stockings and someone had even found a suit to fit her father.
Cleo felt like a drab duck amidst a party of elegant drakes. Her skirts were limp, her gown was presumably years out of fashion, and her bare feet were pushed into backless slippers. Maggie had done her best with her hair, but without any idea between the two of them what a fashionable coiffure would look like, the best she could hope was that she looked clean and tidy.
When confronting footpads, stare them down, Mama had told her one day after an unpleasant encounter in an alleyway in Constantinople. Never show fear. She drew herself up to her full height, arched her brows, looked down her nose and produced a coolly confident smile. It was not her purse or her life that was at hazard here, only her dignity, she reminded herself. She was damned if she would let Lord Quintus Deverall see how much he affected her.
No one recoiled in distaste at the sight of her, or burst out laughing. But of course, they were diplomats.
‘So glad you could join us,’ Sir James said, for all the world as though she had somehow made space in a crowded social whirl to fit in his dinner party. ‘Lord Quintus you know.’ Quin’s expression was politely bland. ‘Major Grainger is our military liaison and Dr Kent has been sent out by the Royal Society to assist with the recovery of Egyptian artefacts from the French once we have obtained their surrender. Meanwhile I am sure he and your father will find much to discuss. Gentlemen, Madame Valsac.’
‘I think I will revert to my maiden name,’ Cleo said. She could think of no reason to keep Thierry’s name now and it would surely ease things in England if she had no obvious French connections.
‘Miss Woodward, then.’ The gentlemen bowed all over again. Cleo dipped what she hoped was a passable curtsy and eyed the elaborate table setting with disquiet. This was a glimpse into the world that she had always known existed out there somewhere and it appeared to require levels of esoteric knowledge that made understanding hieroglyphs straightforward.
She had to do several things at once, beside attempting to keep her countenance and not lose her temper again with Quin. There was posture and what Mama had called deportment. Poor Mama had died before she could instil much into Cleo’s head, but she did recall, Keep your voice and tone moderate, your back straight and your head up. Do not wave your hands about to emphasise a point. Smile, do not be shy, nor forward, do not contradict the opinions of those you are conversing with.
Conversing. That was the next thing. She must make small talk with these men. But what about? Mama had said that a lady did not discuss politics, religion, war, money... What did that leave, especially in the midst of a siege?
‘Your wife does not accompany you, Sir James?’
‘No.’
‘I am so sorry, you must miss her. Perhaps your demanding work is a help under the circumstances,’ she ventured.
‘My wife would tell you that my work is always a distraction, Miss Woodward.’ Could he possibly be smiling? Yes, it seemed he was.
Cleo managed a stiff little curve of her lips in response. ‘Is this your first visit to Egypt? Although I suppose visit is hardly the word.’
‘It is.’ He placed one white-gloved hand under her elbow and steered her towards a footman who held a tray full of glasses. ‘Champagne, Miss Woodward?’ He took her silence for consent and handed her a glass. ‘Difficult to get it adequately chilled, I fear. Yes, I am finding Egypt a most interesting country and the opportunity to use my Arabic is stimulating.’
‘Do many British diplomats speak it?’ Cleo asked. ‘I assumed it would be uncommon.’
‘What with the need to keep the trade routes to the east open and the constant dealings with the Barbary pirates, quite a few of us have had to acquire a facility. I cannot say I found it the easiest language to learn.’
‘I suppose I came to it quite young,’ Cleo said. ‘Although I learned Turkish younger and I am less confident with that. Or perhaps I have had to use my Arabic more.’
‘You speak several languages, Miss Woodward?’ Major Grainger strolled to her side.
‘French, German, Italian, Turkish, Greek and Arabic. Oh, and Classical Greek and Latin, of course.’
‘My goodness, you are quite the scholar, Miss Woodward.’ The major did not appear to consider it to be a quality she should be congratulated upon.
Cleo took a gulp of wine and almost choked. This was supposed to be enjoyable? She swallowed both the cough and a grimace. ‘No, not a scholar, Major. I am the practical member of the family, the one who has to take the notes and do the shopping. If my understanding of the ancient languages is faulty, I am unable to assist my father. If I cannot buy provisions, then we starve.’
She was conscious of heads turning. She had raised her voice, she had spoken tartly to a gentleman. Tut, tut, Cleo chided herself. They’ll think you’ve been brought up in a tent. She took another sip of the wine. It was not so bad this time, now she was prepared for the bubbles.
The glass was empty so she plucked another from the tray and took a defiant sip. Alcohol was
not so different from a sherbet drink, to judge by the taste of it.
‘The weather seems quite temperate,’ Sir James remarked. ‘Hot of course, but not as bad as I had feared.’
When all else fails, fall back on the weather, Mama had advised. ‘This is normal for the time of year,’ Cleo said. ‘It will rapidly get hotter, of course, and then the plague will increase in severity.’
‘Dinner is served, Sir James.’
Was it her imagination or did they all look relieved? The major and Sir James could stop making conversation and Quin and Dr Kent might hope to escape from her father’s views on temple architecture for a few moments.
Sir James took the head of the table and showed her to the seat on his right. Quin took the foot with her father on his right, the major sat next to Cleo and the doctor took the remaining seat opposite her father.
Cleo eyed the array of silverware. Outside in, inside out? At random? And why did they need three glasses each?
Tureens were brought to the table and soup bowls laid out. At least she could work out which spoon to use for that.
Somehow she got through the soup and three removes without apparently committing any great social sin, although she had to admit that after two more glasses of wine, she might be missing the subtler clues. Alcohol, she was discovering, was potent stuff and it certainly helped with this business of making light conversation. She even felt vaguely friendly towards the major and lost all fear of saying the wrong thing. What did it matter what they thought?
The doctor and Quin stopped her father from completely monopolising the discourse, which impressed her with Quin’s diplomatic skills, and Quin did not reveal by so much as a look or a word that anything in the slightest improper had happened between them that afternoon.
She knew she should be relieved, even though she did not expect ever to see the other men again once she had left the camp. A pleasant sensation of drifting, of unreality, was beginning to take possession of her. It was quite delightful.
‘Why are you feeling your forehead with the back of your hand?’ Quin spoke in her ear.
‘Why are you creeping up on me?’ she countered.
‘I’m not. I advanced around the table with all the secrecy of a full cavalry charge.’
‘I was checking to see if I have a fever, if you must know. I feel a trifle...light-headed.’
Quin took her wrist between his fingers and felt her pulse. ‘You’re not feverish, you are tipsy, Cleo.’
‘Tipsy?’ Somehow she managed to turn the shriek into a strangled whisper. The other men were talking amongst themselves and she remembered something vaguely about ladies retiring after dinner so the men could relax and drink something or another. And tell risqué stories, no doubt. Pity, I’d like to hear a risqué story...
‘Tipsy, half-seas over, fuddled,’ he whispered back. ‘Have you never drunk wine before?’ Those flexible, wicked lips held a smile, but it was reassuring, not mocking. Quin slid his hand under her arm as she shook her head. And then wished she had not.
‘I think it is time I saw you home, Miss Woodward. You must be exhausted after the events of the past few days,’ he said, guiding her towards the door. ‘Sir James, gentlemen, I think Miss Woodward should be resting and as there are no other ladies for her to retire with I will see her across the camp.’
Chapter Thirteen
Cleo said her good-nights and thanks without tripping over her feet or slurring her words or saying anything untoward.
‘Being drunk is very strange,’ she remarked as she clutched Quin’s arm and let him steer her towards her hut. ‘I feel all floaty. It is rather nice, I think.’
‘You’ll have the mother and father of headaches in the morning,’ he warned. ‘Drink something before you go to sleep, that will help. And have a big breakfast whether you feel like it or not.’
Cleo stopped suddenly, jerking Quin to a halt beside her. ‘You’re being very kind to me, Lord Quintus. I don’t know why.’ She squinted at him in the moonlight that had turned his hair silver and black and threw dramatic shadows, making a severely beautiful mask out of his strong-boned face.
‘Because I like you, Miss Woodward. You are as much trouble as a basketful of monkeys and as easy to understand as the Sphinx, but you’ve got courage and brains and a certain je ne sais quoi.’
‘Then I am sorry I hit you this afternoon,’ she said on a wave of warmth and generosity. ‘Does your hand still hurt? Perhaps I should kiss it better.’ I would like you to kiss me better.
‘That’s very kind of you, but I think we might give the sentries a bit of a shock.’ Quin started walking again. ‘Here we are, back to your room.’
Private Minton slammed to attention with a thud of boots on the hard ground that made Cleo wince.
‘Tomorrow we’ll discuss arrangements for getting to the coast and taking ship to England,’ Quin said as they stopped outside the door. ‘Private, could you just check all around the building, make certain all the shutters are secure?’ He waited while the soldier saluted and marched off, then turned back to Cleo. ‘I really do better without an audience.’ He tipped up her chin and bent his head so close that when he spoke his breath warmed her lips. ‘Good night, Cleo. Sweet dreams.’
The kiss was gentle and respectful and shockingly thorough. And beautifully timed. As Private Minton marched round the corner again Quin was standing a good foot away from her. ‘Good night, Miss Woodward. Good night, Private.’
‘Sir!’
Cleo was beyond words and, for an awful moment, without the strength in her shaking legs to move. Minton leapt to open the door. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured and staggered inside to collapse on the bed.
The wine or Quin’s kiss, or perhaps both, were making the room whirl above her head. It went on spinning when she closed her eyes so she sat up and groped for the covered glass beside the bed and gulped down warm well water. Cleo had a horrible suspicion that she was going regret a number of things in the morning and probably the least of them was going to be the wine she had drunk.
‘I am not going to think about it now,’ she said out loud and lay down again. I am not going to think about him now, either.
* * *
‘You will be glad to know that your banker in Alexandria has come through all the recent disruption quite safely,’ Sir James said, shuffling a pile of papers on his desk.
‘Disruption?’ Sir Philip looked blank.
Behind her Cleo heard Quin sigh, but he answered patiently. ‘Being occupied by the French, being invaded by the British, having several battles fought in the vicinity, plague, Turkish troops...’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘He released the last lot of funds you requested several months ago to my safekeeping. Here is the receipt.’ Sir James pushed it across the table. ‘I imagine you’ll need to employ a staff and a housekeeper. Dr Kent will see to finding you a house in Cairo as soon as we gain possession, meanwhile you are, of course, welcome to stay here. I assume you will be giving Miss Woodward a note of hand so that she can withdraw money as she passes through Alexandria.’
‘What for?’
‘Clothing, luggage, the necessities for a sea voyage, personal items. The hire of a maid. Miss Woodward will also require a bank draft on your London bank so she can establish herself when she arrives,’ Quin snapped.
‘All very extravagant,’ her father protested. ‘I’m not made of money. I’m a poor man.’
‘Indeed? Your banker in Alexandria was indiscreet enough to let slip that he was concerned about the way your income from the trust fund was building up, Sir Philip.’
‘Trust fund.’ Cleo clenched her hands together to still their shaking. ‘Trust fund? You had money all the time that Mama was working herself into a shadow making ends meet, all the time I have been scratching around economising with every piaster?’
‘It was a pittance a great-aunt left me.’ Her father stuck out his lower lip like a small boy confronted by a misdeed.
‘T
he banker gave me a statement of account to pass to you,’ Sir James added. His face was perfectly bland, but Cleo had the startling impression that he was enjoying this.
‘Thank you.’ She got to her feet and took the sealed letter from his hand before her father could reach for it. The wax shattered under her impatient thumb and she spread out the single sheet with its rows of figures. They danced in front of her eyes as she blinked at them. ‘This is over a thousand pounds. A thousand pounds sterling.’
‘It has accumulated slowly,’ her father huffed.
‘We could have had a doctor for Mama. A proper doctor. A house, servants, you selfish man.’ Cleo looked at the figures again. ‘I want half of this. I have earned it.’
‘Ridiculous. You are a woman, you haven’t the slightest idea—’
‘I fear it may prove very difficult to find the keys to the locks on your chests, Sir Philip,’ Quin interrupted. ‘In fact, it may well be that the chests themselves may have been shipped off to Cairo in error. I doubt my memory of their whereabouts will come back to me until I stop worrying about Miss Woodward’s very reasonable claim for funds.’
‘That’s blackmail!’
‘No, the stress of his experiences, I fear,’ Sir James said. ‘Unfortunately Lord Quintus suffers from these blackouts from time to time. I am sure it will all come back to him. Eventually.’
‘Might I suggest this?’ Quin handed the enraged baronet a piece of paper. ‘Just sign and date it. You’ll see there is a request to release a sum of money to Miss Woodward immediately and to give her a draft transferring funds to the London branch. Ah, my memory is coming back,’ he added as her father scrawled his name across the foot of the page. ‘See, here are the keys.’
‘Quin, you are wonderful!’ Cleo bounced out of her chair and threw her arms around his neck. ‘Thank you.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, full on the mouth.
It took only a second to realise what she had done. What was the matter with her? Lingering alcohol fumes and relief over the money, she supposed. This was Lord Quintus, the man who had betrayed her, for heaven’s sake.