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“You won’t get her married off, even if she does come back,” Harry said with conviction. “She’s completely uncivilized. She once pushed me into a canal in Venice.”
“You doubtless deserved it.” Aunt Agatha sniffed. “You were always teasing the poor child.”
That was true. He’d been mocking Hester’s Italian pronunciation at the time, and thwarting the amorous attentions of a fortune-hunting Count. Hester hadn’t thanked him for either.
“You’re going to Egypt, aren’t you?” Agatha barked. “Your mother told me. So it can’t be very far out of your way.”
“Do you have any concept of how big Egypt is? It’s huge. There are literally thousands of places to get lost and stay lost.”
Aunt Agatha ignored this logic. “Your mother said you were going to get some of ‘em pharaohs.”
“Mummies,” Harry corrected. “The Royal College of Surgeons wants mummies. For dissection. They’ll pay handsomely for well-preserved specimens.”
Aunt Agatha gave a sort of bellow through her nose, which seemed to indicate disgust, but then her rheumy eyes turned sly. “So that’s it! Your pockets are to let. What was it, m’boy? Bad run of cards?” She glanced at theRacing Post. “Lame horse?”
Harry raised an eyebrow. His elder brother, James, was heir to the Tremayne estates. As the second son, Harry had preferred to join the Army instead of pursuing a career in either the church or academia, but since Napoleon had been packed off to the island of Elba things had grown rather quiet. He’d resigned from the army and received the payout of his officer’s commission, but that wasn’t enough to sustain him forever. A trip to Egypt would settle his more pressing debts and build up a nice little nest-egg for the future.
“If something’s happened to Jasper, the poor child will be defenseless.” Agatha sighed dramatically. “She’s a damsel in distress.”
Harry barely restrained a snort. “Lady Hester Morden is the last person in Christendom who needs saving. She’s the most capable woman I’ve ever met. She’d doubtless refuse my help, even if I offered it. I’m sorry, Aunt Agatha. Nothing could induce me.”
“Not even five thousand pounds?” Aunt Agatha said with faux innocence. “I’ll pay five thousand pounds to the man who returns her safely to England.”
Harry’s jaw went slack. He slid his hand into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew his favorite silver hip flask—the one Hester had given him—and took a fortifying swig of brandy.
“Consider me induced.”
Chapter 2
Three weeks later. May 1815.
Lady Hester Mordenwas not having the best day.
She hadn’t, in fact, thought it could get much worse after she’d been sneezed on—yet again—by her surly camel, Bahaba, and discovered a scorpion in her boot at breakfast, but the universe was often surprisingly sarcastic. Things, she’d discovered, couldalwaysget worse.
She’d climbed down into a dry well shaft to examine an interesting series of late Ptolemaic inscriptions she’d glimpsed carved into a panel at the bottom.
Like Uncle Jasper, Hester was a mapmaker, and while her main goal was to complete the definitive map of Upper Egypt they’d come so close to completing before Uncle Jasper’s unfortunate death, she was also interested in all forms of ancient archaeology. Maybe she would be the one to crack the mysterious Egyptian picture writing known as hieroglyphics? That would certainly be something.
Determined to get a closer look at the drawings, she’d hitched up her skirts, climbed down the makeshift ladder, and become so absorbed that it was some time before she realized the ladder had been pulled back up.
“Suleiman!” Hester shouted. Her throat was parched from the sand and dust. She was ready for a nice cup of tea in her tent.
But Uncle Jasper’s fiercely loyal Mameluke companion, Suleiman, who modestly referred to himself as ‘the magnificent’, seemed to have disappeared.
Hester frowned. She’d forgotten her hat again, and the sun beat down, remorselessly hot on the top of her head. She shielded her eyes and squinted upwards. “Suleiman! Where the devil are you? Where’s the ladder?”
No answer.
Somewhere in the distance a donkey brayed. It sounded a lot like a laugh.
Hester put her hands on her hips and let out a long sigh. Wonderful. Here she was. Stuck at the bottom of a well.
She looked at the curved walls. Perhaps she could climb out? She could wedge her fingers in the gaps between the stones . . . but the thought of the scorpions and snakes that might inhabit those cracks gave her pause.
And then the distinct crunch of footsteps sounded above and she glanced up, her spirits rising. The dark outline of a male figure, just the top half, head and shoulders, bent over the edge of the well and peered down at her.
“Oh, Suleiman. There you are. Thank goodness! Someone seems to have pulled up the ladder without realizing I was down here. Could you get it, please? Or failing that, a rope?”
