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“He is,” Helen agreed.
“But I think perhaps he’s a bit too Egypt-mad for my taste.”
Helen’s brow hitched upward. This was unexpected, though promising. It seemed Lydia, who’d previously shown little discernment, had developed preferences that went beyond a gentleman’s title or the size of his bank book. That Lydia should decide she and Lord Thorsby didn’t suit suggested a growing confidence in the younger woman, and Helen was glad for it. Though many women of their society dreamed of a love match, it was a luxury few could afford.
“Marriage is for a lifetime,” she said. “You should find one who shares your heart if you’ve the opportunity to do so. It’s a rare advantage not to be wasted.”
As she spoke of shared hearts, her stomach twisted. She’d not come to Egypt seeking love, but in her heart, she knew she’d found it. Although Rhys had said nothing of courtship—much less matrimony—she’d gladly return to England if he asked it of her. The realization was at once alarming and sobering. What sort of scholar was she, that she could so easily abandon her work? But then, how could she not in the face of something as rare as true love?
“I made the acquaintance of a Mr. Northcott aboard theTamarisk,” Lydia continued. “He’s not a lord, of course, but he’s quite handsome, and he’s already spoken for one of my waltzes at Mr. Shepheard’s next ball.”
Helen nodded. “Then I wish you a very enjoyable dance with the gentleman.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The next evening, Rhys was determined to leave the sick room. He had matters of import to discuss with Helen, and he didn’t wish to do so from his bed. He bathed, moving more slowly than he wished, but it was a relief to lose the acrid stench of smoke from his hair. Sir Rupert’s bullet hadn’t struck anything too important, but it had left him with a wide gash on his left side. The physician, in his turn, had left him with a long, puckered sample of his stitching that itched like the very devil.
Ugly stitching aside, he wondered what Helen would make of the scar—would she find it dashing? The notion caused his neck to heat, and he hurried through his bath with anticipation of seeing her.
Shepheard’s man, Buraq, assisted him to change the bandage, then he held a fresh shirt while Rhys gingerly pulled it on. When the valet began arranging his shaving things, Rhys rubbed a hand along his jaw, surveying the shadow of his whiskers.
“I’ll dispense with the shave for today,” he said.
“As you wish, sir.”
After Buraq had gone, Rhys opened Helen’s guidebook and emptied the hollowed-out space into his hand as two quick raps sounded at the door. He recognized Fiona’s knock and wondered if Helen was with her.
“Enter,” he called.
Fiona strode into the room, and he was disappointed to see she came alone.
“It’s good to see you upright, Brother,” she said as she pecked his cheek. Pulling back, she eyed his unshaven jaw with a wry twist of her lips, but she held her tongue on the matter of his new beard. “Are you ready to go down?”
He nodded, giving a final, nervous tweak to his neckcloth. “Let us go,” he said.
They walked slowly through the hotel’s corridors and down the stairs. He leaned a bit more heavily on Fiona than he would have liked, but she allowed the fiction that he was supporting her, and not the other way around.
His hairline had grown damp by the time they reached the veranda. He blamed it on the Cairo heat, although the sun had surrendered the sky to a luminous pearl moon that hung low on the horizon. Helen sat with the Tyndales at a comfortable table where an evening breeze fluttered the potted palms. A nearby lantern cast a soft glow that outlined the curve of her cheek, and Rhys swallowed at the sight.
Professor Tyndale stood as they approached, and Rhys noticed a new gentleman he didn’t recognize.
“Lord Thorsby,” Tyndale said. “Please allow me to present Mr. Rhys Evelyn and his sister, Mrs. Foster.”
Thorsby. Who had invited him? Rhys checked his frown and stole a glance at Helen. Her gaze was on Rhys, her eyes shining, and he relaxed. A servant brought more tea, and Rhys and Fiona took the seats next to Helen.
“Evelyn,” Thorsby said, “I understand you had part of the Pharaoh’s Trinity in your grasp for a time.”
“So I’m told.”
“It’s a shame such a wondrous piece couldn’t be saved.”
Rhys’s jaw tightened. “There were more pressing matters to address at the time.”
“Yes, yes, of course! We have you and Tyndale to thank for rescuing our dear Miss Corbyn from Sir Rupert’s villainy. I’m certain I speak for her family when I extend our sincerest gratitude.”
Helen’s brow pinched at this presumption, and her displeasure warmed Rhys.
“I think our dear Miss Corbyn and Mrs. Tyndale were well on their way to rescuing themselves,” Rhys said with a wink toward the older lady. “And with a bit more grace, I might add.”
