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Rhys’s heart thumped at her assurance, but he couldn’t stop his doubts from showing. “She’s a good person,” he said.
“Is that an argument for or against her?”
He twisted his lips in annoyance, and she gave him a pitying smile as if his thick head defied belief.
“She’s certainly too good for a former lock-pick,” he argued.
“You didn’t work as hard as you did to leave that life behind, only to use it as an excuse now. And besides…” Her voice trailed off. His sister’s plain-speaking wasn’t unexpected, but her sudden shift in demeanor was. She made an intense study of the counterpane, and his unease grew.
“Besides…?” he prompted.
“She might be aware of your past.”
“I haven’t told her. How is she aware?”
“It might have come up.”
“How does something like that ‘come up’?
Fiona drew a long breath and his worry edged up a notch. “I simply told her you’re a good man,” she said. “And thenshereplied that she knows you’ve not lived a saint’s life, but she believes you’re good in the ways that count. And she’s guessed, from your facility with locks, that your past may have involved some unsavory bits. I merely confirmed what she already knew.” Rhys pushed himself higher in the bed and Fiona rushed to add, “But don’t worry, brother. I left plenty of details for you to share in your years together.”
Rhys rubbed his jaw. “Unsavory?”
“I believe the word she used was ‘adventurous,’ but it amounts to the same thing.”
Rhys snorted a soft laugh. With Helen, it probably did. But regardless of his uncertainty about her feelings, the clock ticked ahead. Soon, he and Fiona would be bound for England. He imagined it would take some time to see his sister settled. Could Helen be persuaded to wait for his return?
Then he eyed his sister and realized he’d begun arranging their departure from Egypt without apprising her of his plans. He could well imagine Helen’s tight-lipped displeasure at such high-handedness.
“Fiona,” he said slowly, “shall we discuss our plans for returning to England?”
——
Helen opened thedoor of her hotel suite but before she could enter, she was hailed softly from the hall.
“Miss Corbyn.”
She looked up to see Lydia Tyndale approaching. The lady’s sunburn had eased, and the bites covering her face and arms were healing. If only a person’s character could be mended so easily. “Miss Tyndale.”
“I—I’m pleased to know you and my aunt weren’t harmed during your encounter with our consul-general,” Lydia said tentatively.
Helen’s brow dipped in suspicion, but she forced her expression to clear. “Thank you.”
“And is—is Mr. Evelyn improving?”
Helen studied the other lady, wondering what scheme she played at now, but Lydia’s head was bowed, her tone unobjectionable. Gone was the cunning gleam from her eye, and it finally came to Helen: Lydia was making anoverture, hesitant though it was. “Mr. Evelyn is improving,” she confirmed.
Relief crossed the other woman’s face. “That is good to hear,” she said, and Helen thought she might have meant the words as nothing more than they sounded.
An uncomfortable silence passed between them, but when Helen would have taken her leave, Lydia spoke again. Her words came in a rush as she said, “Why were you kind to me earlier, when we encountered Lord Thorsby in the entry? I have been absolutely horrid to you, and yet you encouraged him in my direction.”
Helen considered the other lady. That she attempted to clear the air between them—and with no apparent motive—suggested her heart might not be as cold as her actions indicated. Though Helen didn’t expect she and Lydia Tyndale would ever be bosom companions, there was no reason not to be civil acquaintances. Swallowing, she said, “Miss Tyndale, I wonder if we might forget what’s passed between us and begin again?”
Lydia’s relief was evident in her tremulous smile. “I should like that.”
Helen searched her mind for something conversational, but all she could summon was, “You’ve an interest in Lord Thorsby then?”
Lydia smiled. “He is handsome, is he not?”
