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Sir Rupert carried a candelabra toward the display cases at the center of the room, splashing wax onto the polished floor as he set the heavy branch atop one of the cabinets. He fumbled to retrieve a key from his pocket then cursed as he tried to open one of the cases. Akeem’s eyes narrowed on the glass, so Rhys could only assume the cabinet must contain his precious wing.
Rhys quickly assessed the room as his mind sought a path forward. There were no more doors beyond the one guarded by Sir Rupert’s man, no additional exits other than the wall of windows framed with heavy velvet curtains. But Akeem still held Sir Rupert’s attention. If Rhys moved quickly, he might subdue the guard before Sir Rupert could enter the fray.
The weight of the pistol in his pocket was poor comfort—with three more guards patrolling the grounds, Rhys couldn’t afford to alert them with the sound of a gunshot. He turned to Tyndale and motioned to the guard. When Tyndale indicated his understanding, Rhys gave a sigh for his poor bruised hand then entered the room.
The guard spun at the motion, hand on his dagger. Rhys delivered a punch before the man could draw his weapon, wincing as his hand throbbed anew. The guard stumbled back but quickly righted himself and swung. Rhys ducked. The man dodged his next strike, but Helen placed a well-timed foot in his path, and he fell with a heavy thud, hitting his head on the tea table as he landed. He lay motionless but breathing, and Tyndale quickly pulled the rope from the guard’s belt.
It was over in a matter of seconds and throughout it all, Sir Rupert remained fixed on opening his cabinet with the intensity of focus shared only by the insane or heavily drugged.
Helen hurried to Rhys’s side, and he gripped her hand. The feel of her cool fingers in his set his heart to racing more than the brief encounter with the guard had.
“Sir Rupert took your sister,” she said, “but I don’t think she’s being held here.”
“I know. Fiona’s safe at the hotel.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” Helen said on an exhale. She beamed a wide smile at him. “It’s a shame you don’t have your splint,” she whispered, eyeing the guard at their feet. “You might have beaten him about the head with it.”
Rhys couldn’t help his grin as he bent to assist Tyndale, but he knew the matter couldn’t be finished so easily. Indeed, Sir Rupert finally roused to the commotion around him.
“Here now,” he said with a slow blink. He’d finally mastered the lock on his case, but he paused to wave an imperious hand at Akeem. “Dispatch the intruders.”
Akeem stood with his feet firmly planted and arms crossed. His voice returned to that of Akeem Effendi as he said, “On behalf of Mohammed Ali Pasha and the Order of Osiris, I am arresting you for violations of the governor’s ordinance on antiquities.”
Sir Rupert snorted. “What’s this?You’rearrestingme? You kidnapped this man’s sister,” he said, motioning to Rhys. “If you were in England”—he paused overlong, thinking. “If you were in England, you’d hang for such an offense.”
“That was Hossam who took Mrs. Foster,” Akeem said. “And on your orders, I would add.”
Sir Rupert blinked again, but still he persisted. “You can’t arrest me on the governor’s edict. It controls the removal of artifacts from Egypt, but as you can see, my collection is still here.” He waved his arms expansively to indicate the cabinets as he dismissed Akeem’s charge.
“Still here, yes, but I believe you’re mistaken that it remains in Egypt,” Rhys said. At the consul-general’s dazed look, he reminded him, “I believe you once told me your residence is as good as English soil.”
Akeem tipped his head at Rhys and confirmed his statement. “You are correct.” To Sir Rupert, he added, “Your ambassador’s residence has English sovereignty. Strictly speaking, your collection of artifacts has left Egypt without the proper clearance.” He moved forward to take Sir Rupert’s arm, but the man staggered to collide with the display case at his back. The candelabra teetered, dropping more wax onto the glass as Sir Rupert produced a small pistol from beneath his coat.
Rhys inhaled sharply. Tyndale saw the gun as well and hurried to tuck his wife behind him.
“Helen,” Rhys said urgently, “go with Professor Tyndale.” He reached out to take her hand, but Sir Rupert stopped them with a shout.
“No one leaves!” he declared, waving the pistol.
“Permit the ladies to go,” Rhys said, his voice surprisingly clear despite his heart having climbed into his throat. “Don’t compound your crimes.”
As he spoke, Akeem moved toward Sir Rupert and the display case. Rhys wasn’t certain which he aimed to secure—the man or the scarab’s wing. Sir Rupert noticed Akeem’s movement as well and turned.
“Stop,” he ordered, swinging the gun toward Akeem.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Rhys turned to Helen. “Go!” he whispered, urging her toward Tyndale. To his surprise, she went without the requirement for further discussion.
Sir Rupert spun then, the pistol shaking in his grip as he pointed it at Helen. Rhys didn’t think but simply jumped, taking Sir Rupert to the floor as the gun discharged with a burst of light and sound. The display case crashed with them, and the candelabra caught one of the velvet curtains with an ominous whoosh.
Sir Rupert twisted and fought Rhys’s hold, his hands bleeding as he scrabbled among the broken glass. “The wing,” he mumbled, uncaring that flames greedily ate at his curtains.
Akeem shoved Sir Rupert aside to sift through the broken glass himself, and Rhys pushed himself up on shaky legs. “We have to go,” he said. The flames climbed higher, leaping from curtain to curtain. Wooden furniture popped as the fire licked at it. The room would be engulfed in a matter of moments. Already, black smoke filled the air and Rhys coughed.
The guard had awakened and fled in the chaos, wisely choosing his own safety over that of his employer. Rhys searched for Helen and saw her waiting for him in the doorway, resisting when Tyndale would have ushered her through. He thought she might have called to him, but he couldn’t hear above the now roaring flames.
Paint bubbled and peeled from the frescoes nearest the blaze, and a pair of curtains fell heavily to the floor in a shower of sparks. And still, Akeem and Sir Rupert searched for their precious wing.
“Leave it,” Rhys commanded, pulling Akeem to his feet. As if just noticing the jumping flames around them, Akeem straightened. “Go,” he urged Rhys with a nod toward Helen in the doorway. Akeem hoisted Sir Rupert to his feet and cast one more longing look at the glass littering the floor.
