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Lydia’s eyes widened at that before she scowled. “Don’t tease me so. I will not believe there are giraffes and gazelles in the hold. But a wall… yes, that should work. Uncle, can you suggest it to the captain?”
Helen pressed her lips against a smile as the professor frowned. “Er, yes,” he said. “If the conversation allows, I’ll be sure to mention it.”
They passed the gentlemen’s smoking room and the ladies’ sitting room. As they neared the dining saloon, Mr. Rhys Evelyn appeared in the corridor dressed in formal supper attire. With his hair combed back above the dark slashes of his brows, his expression was rather austere, and Helen wondered what might cause him to smile.
“Mr. Evelyn,” Professor Tyndale said.
Lydia smiled coyly and asked, “Do you dine with us again tonight?”
He greeted them with a dip of his head. “Tyndale. Ladies.” His gaze slid briefly to Helen before coming back to Lydia. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you this evening, Miss Tyndale. I’ve a prior engagement in the, er, gentlemen’s parlor.”
Lydia pursed her lips in a pretty pout, and Helen checked her own frown. She was certain, judging by his attire, that Mr. Evelyn had intended to take his supper in the dining saloon as Lydia said he’d done for the past nights.
So far as Helen knew, the only thing different about this night was, well, her. Had he changed his course because she joined them? She was used to gentlemen fawning over Miss Tyndale, but what had Helen ever done to put Mr. Evelyn off?
She received a fierce frown from Lydia when the gentleman wasn’t looking, and her suspicions were confirmed by the other lady’s irritation. She’d not been imagining Mr. Evelyn’s avoidance then.
Before she could give the matter further thought, the ship pitched and rolled sharply. Helen’s hands grew damp, her stomach turning with the sudden motion, and she swallowed.
Mr. Evelyn extended a steadying hand to her elbow, eyeing her with something akin to sympathy in his pale eyes. When the ship settled into its placid passage once more, he quickly dropped his hand to his side and tipped his head at them.
“Good evening, Professor. Ladies,” he said with one final glance at Helen before he left them in the corridor.
Lydia sailed ahead toward the dining room. As she passed Helen, she leaned close to whisper, “Mr. Evelyn is not the sort to be deceived by fragile airs.”
Helen fought the urge to cast her gaze toward the ceiling, though it required some effort. But she was on a voyage to Egypt and her seasickness had finally abated. (Somewhat.) She’d not allow anything or anyone to upset her good mood. She followed the Tyndales, resolved to forget Mr. Evelyn’s odd behavior and Lydia’s temper and simply enjoy the evening.
TheOriental’sdining saloon was large and airy, with high ceilings and tall windows. She pulled her gloves from her fingers as they approached the captain’s table. It was elegantly set as Lydia had promised it would be, with fine linens, silver, and Sèvres porcelain in the Eastern style.
The course offerings were liberal and well prepared, and attendants were on hand to do the carving. Sherry, Madeira and claret flowed freely as bowls of creamy soup were set before them. Helen shook her head at the wine and opted for soda water, not wishing to anger her stomach when they’d reached such a tentative accord.
But when the ship rolled again during a course of roasted pheasant, she knew she’d been overly optimistic. Her hands shook and perspiration dampened her hairline. She closed her eyes on an inhale, willing her senses to settle, but bile rose once more. She quickly pushed back from the table before she could embarrass herself.
“Miss Corbyn.” Professor Tyndale stood abruptly as Helen hurried away.
“She’ll be fine, Uncle. Here, the footman has brought round some spiced carrots.”
Helen fled the dining room and raced against her pitching stomach, trying to recall which corridor led to her cabin. The halls crossing the interior of the ship all looked the same. Finally, with unparalleled relief, she wrenched the knob on her door and pushed her way inside.
She leaned against the cool wood momentarily, grateful to have reached the solitude of her cabin without disgracing herself. The room was dark after the lamp-lit corridor, with naught but a tiny bit of moonlight finding its way through the porthole. She stumbled toward the corner where she knew she’d find the basin, and her foot struck a table where she didn’t recall there being one. She winced at the pain.
Suddenly, she stopped and sniffed. The barest trace of masculine soap teased her nose. Her breath stilled as the hairs on her neck stood at attention.
She wasn’t alone.
——
Rhys moved onsilent feet toward the intruder. He carried his watch on his person, and he’d secured his satchel in the bottom of the cabin’s wardrobe for the night, but it wouldn’t take a tremendous amount of genius to guess its location. Even the Collector’s underlings, who’d never made any claims to genius, might eventually work it out.
This particular intruder was a bumbling sot who didn’t even make an attempt at stealth. The man knocked into a low table then grunted softly, and Rhys stopped at the sound. His intruder was a… female?
In the light of the rising moon shining through his porthole, she turned, and her woman’s silhouette reached for a candlestick on the nearby desk. She lifted it and spun, and Rhys gripped her arm before she could brain him with the heavy silver plate.
“You!” she hissed in surprise.
He couldn’t see her features in the shadows, but he paused at the shock in her voice. If she didn’t know who occupied the cabin she intended to rob, then she’d not come for the amulet. He maintained his grip, unwilling to let her go until he knew more.
Her next words surprised him further, her voice a low whisper as she said, “Why are you in my cabin?”
