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PROLOGUE
SHEPHEARD’S HOTEL, CAIRO — 1846
“Travel becomes you,” Rhys Evelyn told his sister. They were taking tea beneath the sunshade on Shepheard’s broad veranda after a day spent exploring the noisy bazaars of Cairo. Fiona, who’d put off her blacks only two months before, was in fine looks and he was happy to see it. She’d mourned her husband long enough, but now her eyes were bright with interest at all that surrounded them and her cheeks pink from the heat.
Rhys swatted a mosquito as Fiona idly fingered the edges of a small scarab pendant hanging round her neck. “I think I might make a career of traveling,” she said. “Can I do that—is there such a thing?”
“You can do whatever you like, I imagine. Foster left you well situated.”
“He did, at that,” she said. “But you needn’t worry I’ll force my company on all your travels. I appreciate your indulgence this time—truly, you’re the best of brothers—but I know you have your railway investors to see to. I’ve been thinking I should engage a companion and make a grand tour of the Continent.”
Rhys lifted his brows, pleased to hear it. His sister could use some female companionship. Or perhaps… He hesitated, but it needed to be said. “Or perhaps you’ll engage another husband?”
Her eyes turned soft before she forced a smile. “I don’t think I’ll marry again, Rhys. Although,” she added ruefully, “it would be nice to lose this name. ‘Fiona Foster’ makes me sound like a third-rate actress.”
Rhys’s lips twisted with a smile. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he argued with heat. “You’re second rate, at the very least.” She didn’t toss her almond biscuit at him, but he could tell the urge was there. “And you should never say never,” he continued. “You may change your mind one day, and then I’d have to tease you about it.”
She dropped the pendant and neatly changed thesubject. “I think we should visit St. George’s tomorrow, as long as we return in time to catch Shepheard’s fireworks display.”
“St. George’s? Are you thinking to join the nunnery there? I have to warn you, Fiona, I’m not certain the sisters will have you.”
Fiona did lob a piece of biscuit at him then, which he caught and popped into his mouth before her poor manners could get them tossed from the place. “I’ve no plans to join a nunnery,” she said repressively. “But Mrs. Bracebridge—you recall the lady we met two days ago—she said the frescoes in the church are not to be missed.”
“Then I suppose we shall have to see them for ourselves.”
Fiona lifted the pendant once more and angled her head to study the piece. “Do you think it’s worth anything?” She’d found the amulet in a box of sand-crusted relics she’d bought off an enterprising street urchin.
“There must be a hundred more like it in the bazaar we just left,” he replied. Or in the shops where counterfeit artifacts were churned out like buttons.
“You, brother, have no imagination. No sense of adventure or appreciation for the romance of the past.”
“I have a greater appreciation for the coin of the present,” he said wryly, “and I’d like to see you keep yours.”
Her amulet was crafted of red carnelian (or paste, he suspected) wrapped in gold wire (which was probably painted). The figure was topped by a dull blue disc in ancient imitation of the Nile moon, and a line of tiny etchings marked the back. The edges of the carvings had been dulled by time (or perhaps a bit of sanding paper).
His sister had been intrigued by it, though, so he’d helped her thread a thin chain through a small hole in the top. Similar holes on the sides added a touch of authenticity, hinting that there might once have been wings attached to the thing.
It wasn’t his sister’s usual style and, truth be told, he found it rather ugly. But he couldn’t deny the scarab, a symbol of rebirth, was appropriate for Fiona. She’d been resurrected during their travels, nearly returned from a woman weighted by grief to the carefree sister he’d always known. And paste or not, that was invaluable.
——
Rhys and Fionatoured St. George’s not-to-be-missed frescoes, which Rhys conceded were impressive. After viewing the vibrant paintings, the abbess, a dark-robed woman in her seventh decade, invited them to see more of the convent. She led them up steep stairs, where windows cut into the stone afforded a distant view of the pyramids on their vast plain. The upper floor also held a small room where several of the sisters were busy dispensing medicines and dressing wounds.
“You’ve a hospital?” Fiona asked with interest.
“For nearly six centuries now,” the abbess said. “The ill and injured of all faiths seek advice and treatment here.” As she spoke, a young girl emerged from the small infirmary with an infant on her hip. “That is little Amira, an orphan girl. She found a baby in the streets some months ago and adopted him. The baby’s taken ill, though, and Amira brings him here for medicine.”
Fiona’s brows pulled low, and Rhys’s own heart pinched at the story. Before his sister could open her purse, though, he urged her along. A bank draft would go much further toward meeting the hospital’s needs than a few coins from the bottom of his sister’s reticule.
They returned to Shepheard’s as the day’s heat was peaking, and Rhys thought how nice it would be to enjoy a cold English rain. They’d not seen a drop of the stuff since landing in Africa. His imaginings were interrupted, though, when they reached their suite of rooms to find the door ajar. Small scratches at the lock were evidence that a less-than-expert pick had been at work.
“Rhys?” Fiona whispered as she, too, eyed the lock.
Urging his sister behind him, he nudged the door open and moved through their rooms with cautious steps. Cushions in the small sitting room had been tossed about, and Fiona’s vanity drawers were upended, her jewelry scattered across the carpet. Their clothing lay in heaps upon the floor, and his sister’s box of artifacts was emptied. Several items were broken and lay strewn across the desk.
Nothing appeared to be missing, though. This hadn’t been a robbery so much as a search, and an unfruitful one, at that.
The Egyptian authorities were called and Mr. Shepheard himself summoned Britain’s consul-general. Sir Rupert Daventry was a thin, mustachioed man. He sucked his teeth, studying Rhys and Fiona with a considering eye before saying, “It’s unfortunate, certainly, but these things will happen. You’re sure nothing is missing?”
