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“You forgot your bag,” she explained as she hurried forward beneath the weight of her burden. He shook his head, oddly distressed at her appearance. Before she could reach him, though, two men entered the mouth of the alley. They held their hands low, and Helen gasped to see light glinting off steel blades as they approached. Their eyes were dark and flat, intent on their purpose.
“Mr. Evelyn!” she warned, but the men, it seemed, weren’t aiming for him. With a start, she realized they were coming toward her. She backed away but came up hard against a shop wall. The assailant closest to her lunged, and she held Mr. Evelyn’s bag in front of her as a poor shield. Before the man’s knife could strike, though, he cried out. Helen peeled her eyes open to see Mr. Evelyn had left his alcove. His brows were low, and he held his own knife as her assailant clutched one shoulder.
Helen inched along the wall, but the second man blocked her passage, his expression fierce. Her heart pounded in her throat and when she thought he, too, might lunge for her, he was seized from behind by Mr. Evelyn. Soon the three of them were circling one another, knives flashing in the sun.
Helen clutched helplessly at both bags. She considered dropping Mr. Evelyn’s where she stood and fleeing back to the canal. It was a cowardly thought, but at least then she might be able to send aid to him—two men against one were hardly fair odds. But as she slid along the wall, the fight moved, blocking her path. With the building at her back and the men before her, there was nowhere to go.
She was relieved to see Mr. Evelyn had some skill, although she was hardly a suitable judge. His reflexes were quick, though, and he blocked one attack after another. She winced when the second assailant came at him from the side, but he dodged and parried, his knife flashing through the air. He twisted one way then another before drawing more blood across the shoulder of the first attacker. The man clutched his arm as his knife skittered across the ground, and Helen released her breath in a whoosh.
Mr. Evelyn kicked out with his booted foot, sending the man to land hard on his knees. He jumped back in time to avoid a slice to his torso from the second assailant, but his own knife was knocked from his hand in the effort. Mr. Evelyn struck out with a tight fist, and there was a sickening crunch as his hand met the assailant’s jaw. Helen gasped at the sound, but Mr. Evelyn barely flinched as the man crumpled to the ground.
She looked up to see the first assailant had regained his feet and was barreling toward her. She pressed herself tighter against the wall as if she might disappear into the mortar. Oh, why hadn’t she run?
Then, recalling Mr. Evelyn’s handy footwork, she put her own foot out as the man reached her. To her surprise, he tripped to roll across the uneven pavement. Her relief was short lived as a thirdassailant arrived at the mouth of the alley. Mr. Evelyn dove to one side as the crack of a gun echoed off the cobbles. The sound was deafening, but more alarming was the spray of dust and shattered brick as the bullet hit the wall near Helen’s cheek.
She was numb with shock and deaf to Mr. Evelyn’s words as he seized her hand and pulled her through a dark doorway.
——
Miss Lydia Tyndalewatched from her berth aboard theTamariskas Miss Corbyn pursued Mr. Evelyn down a nearby alley. The foolish woman actually lifted her skirts andchasedthe man as if she were desperate for his attentions. Had she no shame? And why couldn’t Lydia’s uncle—why couldn’tanyone—see it?
She scoffed at the woman’s foolishness then let out a relieved sigh when one of the porters lifted Lydia’s trunk onto the deck of theTamarisk. At leastthatmatter had been sorted, no thanks to Miss Corbyn. Lydia turned from the window and patted her hair in the cabin’s small mirror then smoothed a wrinkle from her gown.
For whatever reason, men were intrigued by the bookish Miss Corbyn. Why, it had taken an unprecedented effort to divert Lord Thorsby’s attentions at the Trustee’s ball, and Lydia, who’d already had the pleasure of three seasons, worried that her charms had begun to fade. To her way of thinking, this journey was her final chance to secure a husband. A lord, preferably, although she wouldn’t be too particular if a suitably flush gentleman showed her the proper interest. The notion rankled, as the daughter of a viscount really ought to find herself a title to marry, but needs must and all that.
She’d been skeptical of finding a gentleman in Egypt, of all places, but her aunt had assured her she’d sparkle amongst the society of Cairo. It was the only reason she’d agreed to come, not thatthey’d given her much choice. So, she’d find herself an English gentleman, marry swiftly, and persuade him to return to England post-haste. This land, with its bugs and dirt and noisy people, would be naught but a distant memory in short order.
Miss Corbyn was welcome to it, as far as Lydia was concerned.
She finished her toilette, patting a cloth dampened with rose water about her eyes. Beyond her door, a loud popping noise came from the direction of the shops, and she paused. Then with a shrug and a fortifying breath, she left the cabin to join her aunt and uncle at the rail.
Two attractive gentlemen glanced up and nodded as she walked across the deck. She offered them a coy smile, which they returned with interested grins of their own, and Lydia was grateful for the time she’d taken to repair herself. Even more so for having passed up her aunt’s laudanum. Nothing put a gentleman off more than a lady nearing unconsciousness.
The boat rocked slightly as a pair of sturdy horses began to tug it along the canal. Lydia reached the rail in time to hear her aunt ask, “What was that noise, Henry? Was that a… a gunshot?” Her aunt’s whisper was breathless as she pressed a hand to her chest.
What was this? Guns! Lydia inhaled sharply and glanced around, but all seemed in order aboard theTamarisk. The sooner she could return to England, the better.
“No, my dear,” her uncle said as he patted her aunt’s hand. “I’m sure it was no such thing. It was probably just an overturned cart.”
There was a tightness about his eyes as he spoke. He’s lying, Lydia thought. Itwasa gun. Were they under attack from the heathen populace?
“Well, that’s a relief,” her aunt replied with a small chuckle. “Although, certainly not for the driver of the cart.” She turned to Lydia. “Do you think we should wake Miss Corbyn? I’m certain she would enjoy the view as we set out.”
Lydia stilled for a long beat, then a smile tipped her lips. “No, Aunt. I’m sure Miss Corbyn wouldn’t wish to be disturbed.”
——
Rhys tugged MissCorbyn’s hand until she had no choice but to follow him through the narrow doorway. They navigated twisting corridors and wound through shops and coffee houses, and all the while he was conscious of the men pursuing them. And of the bag Miss Corbyn had retrieved from beneath the date palm, which now bounced uselessly at his side. Was there ever a man with worse luck?
His hand gripping the strap of the satchel throbbed, and he forced aside the pain clouding his thoughts. He towed Miss Corbyn along behind him,weaving and dodging bins of spices, heavy copper pots and tightly woven baskets.
“Mr. Evelyn!” Miss Corbyn pulled her hand with some force until he released it, and he realized she must have been calling him. “I have to return to the Tyndales. TheTamariskwill leave its mooring soon.”
The crack of another gunshot preempted any reply he might have made. Miss Corbyn flinched and nearly dropped her bag as calls of alarm rose across the bazaar. Rhys reached for the handle, and pain shot through his hand as he took up her bag with his own then led them through the throng once more.
After some more moments of dashing and dodging, they ducked into a dimly lit spice shop at the top of the bazaar. Rhys pulled his companion into the shadows away from the window. His breath was loud in the stillness, and Miss Corbyn’s chest rose and fell rapidly as she stood beside him. He watched the street as he tried to think.
His attackers had made straight for Miss Corbyn and Rhys’s bag. Clearly, they knew what it contained. He could only assume they were working with Akeem, which meant they must be more of the Collector’s underlings sent to retrieve the amulet. There’d been no time to confirm the matter, nor had the men been inclined to discussion.He removed the gun from his coat and checked it once more.
