The Other Guy's Bride

by Connie Brockway

  A group of tourists stood in front of the long desk making loud noises and gesticulating angrily at the harassed-looking clerk. Riyad shot the group a disheartened glance and then turned to her with an apologetic smile.

  “It appears there may be some small delay in registering you, Miss Whimpelhall. In the meantime, if you would be so kind as to take refreshment here in the lobby, it will not be long,” he said. He lowered his voice confidingly: “The lobby is most especially prized as a place for young ladies to see and be seen.” He fairly twinkled as he said it, as sure of her enthusiastic acceptance as an adult would be offering a sweet to a child.

  “Is there somewhere private where I might wait?” she asked.

  It was one thing to deceive Haji, whom she hadn’t seen in six years and who had never struck her as being particularly bright in the first place; it was another to fool someone with whom she may well have dined just last year at her parents’ house in Cairo or even here, at Shepheard’s.

  Riyad shook his head regretfully. “I am afraid not. I assure you, it will only be a short while.”

  He extended his hand toward an open chair in the middle of the room, but she’d already spied another vacant seat in a less conspicuous location behind one of the towering vases filled with potted date palms that ringed the lobby. Lady Sukmore and her companions occupied the seats on the vase’s other side, but they would not see her behind the massive urn.

  She brushed past Riyad and hurried over before someone else could claim the semi-seclusion.

  “—fear this year’s season shall be quite boring. I pray not,” she heard Mrs. Dangleford say in dramatic tones.

  “Be careful what you wish for, dear,” Lady Sukmore replied. “I hear that Ginesse Braxton is due to arrive back in Cairo any day now.”

  Good Lord. They were talking about her. She looked around, trying to find another chair where she could sit, but the only vacant ones were those next to people. People who looked distressingly familiar.

  “Such a bold-faced little scrap of a thing.” Mrs. Paurbotten sniffed. “Looked you dead in the eye in a way that was quite unnatural for a girl. Even the father recognized it if the mother did not. Why, he called her his ‘little adventuress.’”

  It had sounded much nicer coming from her father’s lips. “I’m afraid we’ve raised an adventuress,” he would say, laughing. “She’s never more alive than when something’s at risk.”

  “Best thing they did was to send her off.” Lady Sukmore again. “She made poor Mrs. Braxton’s life a trial, you know.”

  Yes. I know, Ginesse thought, her mood darkening.

  She hadn’t gotten into trouble on purpose. Her intentions were always blameless. There just always seemed to be something irresistible beckoning her from some tawdry show window, down the meanest street corner, atop the highest minaret, or through the narrowest crevasse. Afterwards she’d always swear to be more careful next time, more prudent, less impetuous. And she’d meant it, every time.

  “Should have sent her off far sooner than they did.”

  “Too fond of the girl,” Mrs. Paurbotten said with a sniff. “Nothing good comes of a fond parent, and give a child two fond parents and…just look what happened.”

  “I shudder to think of the high cost to our archaeological community she might have caused had she stayed,” Lady Sukmore said.

  Sanctimonious old biddy. She’d no more interest in the “archaeological community” than she did the Muslim community.

  “I suppose in the end The Fire was a godsend.”

  That damn fire. She hadn’t intended to set the blasted papyri ablaze. It had been an experiment with a magnifying glass gone horribly awry.

  “How’s that?”

  “At least it finally convinced Mrs. Braxton to send the chit away somewhere she could be managed.”

  The memory of The Fire was usurped by another of her mother, eyes unnaturally bright, standing in the foyer of the Misses Timwells’ School of Edification and Improvements.

  “Egypt is too dangerous a place for a girl as inquisitive as you. There are too many opportunities for disaster, and you seem bent on taking them all.”

  Ginesse had pleaded with her parents, insisting she would be more careful, more prudent, that it would never happen again. No one, including herself, had believed her. The two broken arms, a head contusion, sprained ankles, and more bruises and scrapes than she could recall weighed heavily against her.

  “They didn’t even attempt to get her into any of the more selective finishing schools but settled for an establishment known for indulging willful children.”

  And even there, Ginesse had never been able to completely tame her magpie curiosity, her thrill-seeking heart. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to study; she wanted to study everything. Her mind was like a sieve at the end of a fish trap, catching anything that came within its vicinity, a jumble of facts and curiosities, anecdotes and histories, nothing more valued than the next, nothing less interesting for being less weighty.

  But ultimately determination had won out. She was here, wasn’t she? She sat straighter, refusing to be cowed. How she loathed them.

  “I don’t wonder that she’s come back. London society is far more excusive than we allow ourselves to be. She might be husband hunting…”

  How dare they use her embarrassment, her exile, and her life as a way to pass the time between scones and flounder? She was on her feet, heading around the vase before she even realized it. Luckily, Riyad intercepted her before she could act.

  “Ah, Miss Whimpelhall,” he said. “If you will follow me?”

  He escorted her to the front desk and left her to register, after which she was handed off to a young bellhop. The lad took her valise and led her into the Great Moorish Hall, where she finally felt free to remove the dark glasses. They started toward the grand staircase at the far end, its bottom steps flanked by a pair of life-sized Nubian maidens. Along with Mr. Runyan and Mr. Bradley, bankers who were great favorites of her mother’s.

  “Hassan,” Mr. Runyan hailed the bellhop. “Good lad. We were just requiring an impartial judge to settle a dispute—Oh! What ho? I do apologize. I didn’t see you there. Thought old Hassan was quite alone.” He smiled politely, eying her with evident interest. Especially her hair.

  She stopped walking, forcing the bellhop to pause as well. They were a good twenty feet away from the bankers, and the lighting in the hall was dim, the window shutters having been drawn against the late afternoon sun. She could only hope it was enough to disguise her.

  They waited for her to say something, and when she didn’t, Mr. Bradley stepped forward, smiling graciously if with a touch of perplexity. She had to figure out some way past them and quickly.

  “By jingo, it doesn’t look as if there’s anyone about to introduce us properly,” he said and chuckled. “But seeing as we’re in a foreign country, I don’t suppose there’s any reason to stand on ceremony.”

  She took a deep breath and headed briskly toward them, the bellhop falling into confused step behind her.

  “I’m Donald Bradley, and this is—”

  “I am afraid I must disagree, sir. There is always reason to abide by the niceties of social convention, and I, for one, intend to do so.” She swept past them. “What are we, sir, savages?”

  Somehow, she refrained from turning to see their expressions, certain their mouths would be hanging open. They were both such nice gentlemen. And she had been so vile. But it had been necessary. Neither gentleman was likely to recall a thing about her other than that she was red-headed and a first-rate…Lady Sukmore.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Find me some clean clothes by the time I’m done here and there’ll be another piaster in it for you. Here.” Jim flipped the kid some coins to make the purchase. He caught them in midair before bowing his way backward out the door, leaving Jim alone in the public bath’s private room.

  It was growing late, and the small window high in the tiled wall had darkened ov
er, leaving the room in a misty semidarkness illuminated only by the sconce over the door. Wisps of steam rose from the raised pool in the room’s center to collect on the ancient tiled ceiling and drip back to the slick stone floor. The room was hot and sour-smelling.

  But then, Jim thought, that could be him.

  He raised his arm and sniffed. Fine. Pomfrey’s future bride had a point; he did smell. Though why she’d informed him of it in that insulted, haughty manner was a mystery. She couldn’t have taken exception to his saying she was safe with him? Most unmarried ladies would be only too grateful to be so reassured that their guide would be conscientious with their reputations, reputations being stock and currency in the English marriage mart.

  But then, she was not your standard-issue English miss.

  Oh, without a doubt she was a young lady. The mellifluous upper-class accent, the haughty wing-shaped brows, the imperious angle of her chin: they were all the products of a first-rate finishing school. As was her unquestioned superiority to all other people and cultures. Which meant she wasn’t different at all.

  But how had she escaped with so much intensity intact? Her stride was too long and too purposeful, unseemly in a member of the leisured class. And no headmistress would have tolerated that open-mouthed smile. And the lithe, tensile waist he’d held was not the product of sitting in drawing rooms pouring tea. She was an enigma…

  Why was he wasting time wondering about her? She was Pomfrey’s enigma, not his.

  He peeled off his shirt, wadded it up, and tossed it with more force than necessary onto one of the stone benches. Then, hopping first on one foot and then the other, he stripped off his boots. He’d just unbuckled his belt and had it halfway drawn from the loops when he saw the wisps of steam above the pool shiver. He ducked as a wooden club whistled by his face.

  He spun to face his assailant and instantly recognized a swarthy, well-muscled man with thin lips and a scarred chin: Vincent LeBouef.

  He glanced around for a potential weapon. There was nothing. LeBouef leapt forward and Jim twisted, jerking back, but the club caught his shoulder. Pain lanced down his arm; his fingers went numb. He pitched sideways, slipping on the slick tiles and crashing to his knees. He caught himself with his good hand and looked up. LeBouef sauntered forward.

  “You know, James” the Frenchman mused, “I find myself wondering just how many times a man would need to be attacked to make him so adept at avoiding being struck from behind? It must be a great number.”

  Jim struggled to his feet. “You’d be surprised.”

  LeBouef shook his head. “On the contrary. If the man is you, then no, I don’t think I would be.”

  “That hurts, Vincent,” Jim said, making a show of grabbing at his back and wincing. With numb fingers, he managed to tug his belt free of another loop.

  “You do not make yourself popular with your confederates, Jim. They do not like you.”

  “Maybe I oughta stand a few more rounds at the local pub?”

  LeBouef laughed. It was a pleasant, amused laugh, a drawing room laugh. That was the frightening thing about LeBouef. He seemed so reasonable. So civil.

  He wasn’t.

  “How did you know I was here?” Jim asked, buying time.

  LeBouef shrugged, seeing no reason not to answer. “The boy that folds towels.”

  Jim nodded, unsurprised. LeBouef mined information from a huge population of “little birds”: snitches, eavesdroppers, and rumormongers. He would have paid especially well for information regarding James Owens.

  LeBouef’s smile stretched. “You can imagine my surprise when I heard you were back in Cairo. It is so rash, and you, James, are not a man one would call rash. Do you have some sort of perverse death wish?”

  “No,” Jim said. “I am profoundly interested in remaining alive.”

  “Are you? I wonder,” LeBouef mused, regarding him as though he were a puzzle for which he’d not been given the proper pieces. “You have nothing. No family. No home. You belong nowhere. N’est-ce pas? We are not so unalike in that, are we?”

  Jim didn’t answer. The longer LeBouef waxed philosophical, the more time Jim had to regain the use of his hand.

  “I,” LeBouef pointed the club at his chest, “was hounded from France by a tragically corrupt government. And you were hounded from…?” He raised a brow invitingly.

  “Name a country. Chances are, I’ve been thrown out of it.”

  LeBouef laughed again, shaking his head with something approaching affection. “I do not understand. You could have been a rich man had you joined me when I asked. Yet you refused. It is as if you do not want wealth. But then, one must ask oneself, what other reason besides the acquisition of wealth would you have to be here?”

  Jim didn’t answer.

  “You are something of a mystery, James. And I, to my great sorrow, am a romantic. What is your story? Tell me.”

  “I’m flattered, Vincent, and I hate to disabuse you of this little fiction you’ve built up around me, but look around. Egypt is full of men without countries, names, or families.”

  For a long moment LeBouef regarded him, the steely intelligence evident in his dark gaze. Finally he sighed. “It is as you say,” he said, sounding mildly disappointed. “So. Where is my collar?”

  Jim glimpsed a sliver of hope: LeBouef didn’t know he’d already sold the pharaoh’s ancient jeweled collar to another buyer.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t look so relieved, James. I really wouldn’t. Where is it?”

  “Look,” Jim said. “I’m not going insult you by saying there’s been some sort of misunderstanding or that things aren’t what they appear to be because we both know they’re exactly what they appear to be. I came into possession of a certain item—”

  “You ‘came into possession of it’ because I alerted you as to its whereabouts,” LeBouef cut in, his voice chill.

  “Whereabouts you were unable to access but I was,” James said, bringing his hands up in a placating gesture. As he did so, his finger caught his belt and dragged it clear of another loop. “I know I promised it to you for a certain sum, but another buyer appeared.”

  “He undoubtedly appeared because you informed him of what you had in your possession.”

  “True.”

  The corner of LeBouef’s lips curled.

  “I’m a businessman. You’re a businessman,” Jim said in his most reasonable tone. “What would you have me do?”

  “Do as you promised and deliver it to me.”

  “Promised?” James repeated. “For the love of God, Vincent, we’re thieves,” he said, and seizing the end of his belt, he jerked it free of the last loop and whipped the buckle straight at LeBouef’s face. It caught him across the forehead.

  Blood erupted from a deep gouge, spilling down LeBouef’s face. He gasped, but he was too seasoned a fighter to drop his weapon. He swung hard, catching Jim full in the ribs. Jim doubled up, grimacing, but he bulled his way closer in, robbing LeBouef’s next blows of some of their power. The Frenchman battered at him, raising his club to hammer it down on Jim’s head, but Jim lashed his belt around LeBouef’s arm, catching the free end and twisting it in a tourniquet around his wrist. He jerked hard, and the club dropped from LeBouef’s hand.

  Jim reared back on his heels, letting his feet slide out from under him on the slick tiles, causing LeBouef to lurch forward. He seized LeBouef’s shirt collar, dug a foot into his gut, and pitched LeBouef over his head and straight into the stone bench behind.

  LeBouef’s head hit the marble with a sickening crack, and he collapsed like a marionette whose string had been cut.

  Grimacing, Jim rolled over and climbed to his feet. He probed the corner of his lip with his tongue and tasted blood. LeBouef had gotten in more than a few good licks. His side ached, his shoulder throbbed, and his left eye was already swelling shut. He limped over to where the Frenchman lay and prodded him with a toe. Satisfied he wasn’t feigning unconsciousness, Jim stripped off LeBouef’s shirt and shru
gged into it because he was betting the kid he’d sent to buy him clothes wouldn’t be coming back.

  With any luck, if he stowed him somewhere out of the way, LeBouef wouldn’t be found until morning. By which time Jim should be far away.

  He jerked LeBouef’s wrists behind his back and lashed them together with strips he ripped from one of the towels. He should light out east, maybe head for India. The only reason he was still alive was because LeBouef didn’t know the heavy gold and gem-encrusted collar was already out of the country, probably gracing the neck of the wealthy Austrian count’s bullmastiff. The count had seemed inordinately fond of that dog.

  LeBouef was going to wake up with murder in mind. Jim’s painful murder. And he was going to hunt for Jim until he found him. The only way Egypt would be safe for him was if LeBouef was dead, a happy but unlikely occurrence unless…Jim gazed down at the unconscious man for a moment before sighing. Nope. He couldn’t do it. He’d just have to write Egypt out of any future plans.

  Resigned, he looped LeBouef’s feet together and then hogtied them to his wrists. He stood up. His only problem was Mildred Whimpelhall. If he didn’t take Mildred Whimpelhall to Pomfrey, he doubted Pomfrey would ever give him another chance to repay his debt. And that meant he’d die beholden to Colonel Lord Pomfrey.

  And that ate at him.

  He shouldn’t care, but he did. The question was did he care enough to risk his life by taking the time to deliver Mildred Whimpelhall to Fort Gordon? It was stupid to even consider.

  Someone else could take her to her fiancé. Someone else could see to it that nothing bad happened to her out there where “bad” was one’s daily companion. He wasn’t the only man capable of guiding her to Fort Gordon. He was just the best.

  At his feet, LeBouef moaned. Jim deliberated a few seconds, shrugged, and clipped him across the jaw, knocking him unconscious again.

  So what if he failed some test that only he cared if he passed? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d failed, and it wouldn’t be the last. Maybe he’d head to Asia or go north to the Baltics. There were still a few places left in the world where a man could lose himself. And if just the thought of that exhausted him down in a place far deeper than muscle and bone, well, at least he’d be alive.