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“Four days,” Sister Galyna replied. Four days! Rhys must have been frantic.
“What will you do now?” the abbess asked.
“I must get word to my brother.”
The abbess frowned, and Fiona’s unease increased. Had Rhys been injured as well? Her palms began to sweat, and her stomach twisted. “Is my brother well?” she asked. “Is he here?”
The abbess offered a gentle smile that did nothing to calm Fiona’s nerves. “When you first arrived, we sent for your country’s consul-general to aid us in finding your brother. Of course, he was relieved to know you’re safe, but when he went to your hotel, he learned your brother had already gone.” The abbess’s eyes tugged down at the corners. “I’m sorry, my dear.”
“Gone?” Fiona’s voice was strident, and with effort, she softened it. “Gone where?” She pushed the bedclothes off and swung her legs to the floor, wincing as fire lanced her side. She looked down to see she was dressed in a simple night rail. Where were her things?
“Your consul-general is working to determine that. In the meantime, you’re welcome to remain here while you recover.”
Fiona’s skin pulled as she moved, the stitches tight in her flesh. She wavered as she tried to stand and braced a hand on the wall next to the window. The street below was noisy as people hurried about their day. She looked in the direction of Shepheard’s Hotel, but of course, she couldn’t see it.
Where was Rhys? She knew her brother, often better than she knew herself. They’d argued just before she’d been taken—and over that silly amulet of all things—but Rhys wouldn’t leave her. He was out there, somewhere.
The hair at the back of her neck lifted, and a chill traveled her spine. She studied the street below for the source of her unease. In the ceaseless flow of people and animals, one man stood motionless, gazing directly up at her with hooded eyes. Fiona sucked a sharp inhale through her teeth and sat heavily on the bed.
——
THE PRESENT
Akeem heard theEnglishwoman moments before he saw her. She was loud, not unlike Akeem’s wife, and her complaints preceded her as he waited at the back of the coffee house. At least, by the sounds of it, Omar had enjoyed better success holding onto her than Hossam had.
The pair rounded the corner and Akeem pushed away from the wall where he’d been standing. The Englishwoman jerked her arm from Omar’s grasp and spun, finally catching sight of Akeem.
“You!” she said, eyeing his scar. He smiled to know she’d not forgotten him. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
Akeem ignored her and glanced at Omar. “Time is short. What took so long?”
“She was surrounded by nuns. It was a simple enough matter to sneak past the priests, but I had to wait until she was alone to take her.”
“What do you want?” the lady asked again.
“If you wish to see your brother, you will cease asking questions,” Akeem said, and the lady stilled.
“You know where Rhys is?”
“That is another question.” She frowned and looked as if she might put up more of a fuss than he wished to endure, so he added, “I will take you to him if you cooperate.”
She eyed him with suspicion before darting a glance at Omar and then the door to the coffee house behind Akeem. She was no fool, this one, but she would not escape again. He moved to block her path and nodded at Omar to do the same.
Seeing no exit, she pulled her shoulders back and said as boldly as if she were the one issuing the orders, “Take me to him then.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was past calling hours when Helen and Mrs. Tyndale arrived at the consul-general’s residence, but not so late to interrupt the man’s tea. While Helen had every hope for Rhys’s success, it couldn’t hurt to secure the consul-general’s support. Someone would need to bring Fiona’s kidnappers to justice, after all, and no one should be permitted to make off with the Pharaoh’s Trinity. The piece belonged in a museum.
Sir Rupert’s residence was a grand villa set back from the street behind a tall, wrought-iron fence that afforded both privacy and security. The facade was crafted of pale sandstone, and elaborately carved columns framed an arched entry.
After presenting their cards, a tall, thin man of Moorish descent admitted them to a marbled foyer. They followed him past a sweeping staircase, their slippers clicking softly on the stone floor until they reached an expansive drawing room. The servant pulled the doors closed and left them in silence.
Mrs. Tyndale’s eyes widened as she studied the room. “Oh my,” she whispered, and Helen couldn’t disagree. The space was enough to steal one’s breath.
The walls were done in soft cream and adorned with gilded moldings and intricate frescoes depicting scenes from Egyptian mythology. Tall windows overlooked a lush garden while the crystal drops of a chandelier sparkled and winked above. Carefully placed groups of plush velvet settees and embroidered chairs provided seating for tea or conversation, but the most interesting feature, to Helen’s way of thinking, was a row of waist-high display cases that bisected the room.
She approached the closest one and studied the items within. One case held the perfectly preserved remains of a mummified cat. The next, several canopic jars from one of the newly unearthed tombs. The cases had sturdy locks on them, although she didn’t think the glass would put off a determined criminal.
