AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Mr. Evelyn’s smile slipped before he gave her a brief nod of farewell. “Good evening, Miss Corbyn.” And with that, he was gone.
A door behind Helen clicked open, and she turned to find Lydia scowling from her own cabin. “What are you about?” she asked in a harsh whisper.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Where have you been? We thought you’d returned to your cabin, but it appears we were wrong.” Lydia thrust Helen’s reticule at her, which she’d forgotten in her haste to flee the dining saloon.
“Thank you,” Helen said as she took the beaded bag.
“Just so you know, I don’t think Mr. Evelyn will be interested in a bookish lady. He seems much more the sort for dancing and flirting.”
Helen pressed her lips against a sharp retort and said only, “I’m sure you must be right.” She turned her back on the other woman and let herself into 7P.
Lydia’s door slammed, shaking the wall between them, and Helen leaned against her own door. Despite Lydia’s assumptions, Helen was not interested in Mr. Evelyn. She was on her way to Africa for a year’s worth of deciphering and translating, sorting and cataloguing. She didn’t have time for schoolgirl silliness, and certainly not overthisman.
When he’d leaned close to press her glove into her hand, his sandalwood scent had flung her back to the museum’s dark corridor. Now, the inevitable question rose in her mind: Was it possible Mr. Evelyn and the museum thief were the same man?
She laughed aloud at her foolishness. Of course, they weren’t. Many men must share the same sandalwood soap. It was true, Mr. Evelyn’s eyes were pale like the museum intruder’s had been. Added to that bit of incriminating evidence, Mr. Evelyn had been vague about his purpose in Egypt. Helen knew there were unscrupulous men who skirted the legalities to trade in antiquities. Artifact smugglers who cared more for the weight of their own purses than the historical value of the items they plundered. A man like that wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of a lady lost in the ship’s corridors, but Mr. Evelyn had been all that was courteous.
She shook her head. Despite the similarities, she simply couldn’t reconcile the two men. One was a rather ordinary Englishman—extraordinary eyes notwithstanding—while the other… The other had been shrouded in mystery and moonlight. One had quite ordinary shaving things in his cabin while the other sent a shiver tripping along her spine whenever she allowed her thoughts to return to the night of the Trustees’ ball.
She was creating excitement where there was none. Mr. Rhys Evelyn was not the museum’s midnight intruder. She was certain of it.
CHAPTER SIX
ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
The hour was late when theOrientalreached the waters off Alexandria, and a heavy moon hung low like a pearl earbob above the port. Rhys’s fingers drummed a tattoo on the railing. The ship wasn’t more than a mile from shore, but the captain had been obliged to put off his steam and drop anchor rather than risk the treacherous channel at night. TheOrientalwould idle until morning, when a pilot would come to guide them through the old port. It was but one more delay that had Rhys clawing at his neckcloth.
He returned to his cabin and removed the scarab from its hiding place. Then, reaching for his bag, heretrieved a second amulet, a piece he’d commissioned in London before theOrientalsailed.
He unwrapped the thin linen from each and studied them, pleased with the match. There was nodiscernible variation between the two. An untrained eye like his own wouldn’t detect a difference. His insistence on secrecy and haste had resulted in a ridiculously steep price from his London contact, but the precaution eased his nerves. He replaced the replica in his bag and lifted the original to the light, turning the scarab first one way then another to try to understand its appeal.
As far as artifacts went, it was a rather unremarkable piece. It was inconceivable that such a small, inanimate thing could hold sway over men, and he wondered, not for the first time, how his life had come to this. How Fiona’s life had come to this. He wasn’t a saint by any stretch—years as his father’s lock-pick had seen to that. But certainly, Fiona hadn’t done anything to warrant their current circumstances.
At the first hint that their father thought to embroil her in his schemes, Rhys had spirited his sister away to their mother’s aunt in Surrey. They’d been twelve then, and Fiona had been expressive in her displeasure with what she’d called his high-handedness, though she’d come to love Aunt Rose. And against all reason, the lady had grown fond of the pair of them, for when she passed five years later, she bequeathed her estate and a small fortune to them. Armed with hope and heavy pockets, Rhys had left his father’s employ and never looked back.
He’d spent the past decade and more inventing things. Filling his workshop with all manner of tools and gears, cogs and sketches. And then, when he gained a bit of confidence, he’d invested in others’ inventions. He’d made quite a fortune of his own, in fact, for all the good it was doing him now.
He thought of his sister and her mischievous smile, and his eyes grew damp. He dashed the moisture away with an impatient thumb. He’d told Miss Corbyn that Fiona suffered from a similar travel sickness.Suffered—past tense. Had some corner of his mind accepted what his heart could not? Had he already begun to mourn her? His chest ached with the pain of his thoughts, and he rubbed a fist there to ease the burning. No, he wouldn’t believe she was gone. He’d surely feel an emptiness, a void, if she were. Fiona still lived.
He re-wrapped the linen and secured the amulet once more. Then, frustrated with his forced inaction, he went to pace the deck.
The moon’s luster shone across the black water and highlighted the edges of Pompey’s Pillar, risingfrom Alexandria’s low skyline. In other circumstances, he might have found the view pleasing. Romantic, even. He might have enjoyed sharing it with a young lady at his side. Miss Corbyn’s green eyes came swiftly to mind before he shoved the image aside. He studied the dark water instead and wondered if he could swim the distance.
He needed to make his way to Cairo, not kick his heels for another night. Down below, movement caught his eye, and he spied a small craft piloted by a single man. The boatman dipped an oar and navigated around the larger ships as he made for the shore.
“You there!” Rhys called. “Good sir!”
The boatman looked up and Rhys leaned over the side of theOriental. “Fivepiastresif you’ll take me ashore,” he called down.
The man shouted a lengthy reply in a language Rhys didn’t comprehend. It was neither French nor Arabic.
“Fivepiastres,” he repeated, louder this time, and pointed toward the shore. The man shook his head and began stroking again, pulling away from theOriental. “Wait!” Rhys called.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” a soft voice said from his side. He turned to find Miss Corbyn, conjured from his earlier thoughts. She offered a tentative smile, and the moon lit her smooth auburn curls as she approached the rail. Before he could respond, she leaned over the side and called down to the man in a foreign tongue.
The man stopped his rowing and replied in the same cadence, and Rhys looked at Miss Corbyn with new appreciation. First, Maltese and now… He didn’t know what language that was.
