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Helen’s frown turned to a smile. Rhys was wondering how soon he could get her alone when Akeem made an unexpected appearance.
Fiona’s eyes narrowed as he reached their table. Akeem bowed, his gaze darting briefly to her before he dropped something onto the marble tabletop. After a long beat, everyone leaned forward to study his offering. It was a shapeless lump of material, charred and distorted. Tiny bits of purple and blue peeked through the blackened residue. Helen touched a fingertip to the lump, and a bit of charred gold flaked onto the table.
“Is this—?” she began.
“The wing,” Akeem spat.
“But it’s paste!” Thorsby said in disgust.
“It is,” Akeem confirmed. “We were concerned about its authenticity when we first acquired it—it’s one of the reasons we wished to consult with Professor Tyndale—but now we have clear proof that it’s nothing but an imitation. Not unlike the counterfeit scarab’s bodyyougave me,” he said to Rhys. He made no attempt to hide his scowling irritation as he tossed the amulet Rhys had traded for Fiona onto the table. It bounced to land next to the charred wing.
Helen’s eyes widened and she turned to Rhys in surprised inquiry. He swallowed, wondering what she must be thinking. Would she conclude the more “unsavory bits” of his past were coming to the fore? That he’d kept the real amulet for himself? His heart slowed until he thought the blood would stop altogether, but then her expression cleared.
“How clever,” she said with a smile that started his heart again. “You traded the false amulet to maintain an advantage until you knew your sister was safe. Nicely done, Mr. Evelyn.”
Rhys closed his eyes and cleared the lump from his throat. Then, reaching into his pocket, he set the original amulet next to its paste mate. “At the time, I believed Akeem was working for the Collector. It’s true, I was concerned for my sister’s safety, and it would have been a shame to lose such a valuable artifact to one man’s greed.”
Helen beamed her approval, and he nearly kissed her right there. When Thorsby reached a hand toward the artifact, Akeem swiftly scooped it up. He studied the amulet, the scar on his cheek pale against his olive skin as his jaw tightened. His dark eyes grew suspiciously bright as he turned the piece over in nimble fingers. With a nod toward Rhys, he said, “I will see that this reaches the proper authorities. You have my gratitude on behalf of Egypt.”
Fiona straightened at Akeem’s words. “You…” She stopped and stared at the man, and Rhys watched as confusion played across her face. “You spoke the same words to me on the steps of St. George’s.You have my gratitude on behalf of Egypt.It was truly you who helped me there?”
After a beat, Akeem nodded. “I thought you would be safest at the convent and well cared for in the infirmary. To my regret, I didn’t appreciate the full reach of the Collector, or that his spies would have found your location so swiftly. For that, you have my sincerest apologies.”
Fiona frowned, and Rhys imagined she must be struggling to reconcile her memories, not to mention her conflicting emotions. She set her cup gently in its saucer, but her hand trembled slightly. “Fiona, are you well?”
“I’m fine, Rhys,” she said, and he was relieved to hear a firmness in her voice. She straightened, the line of her neck long and elegant above the lace of her gown, and Rhys’s pride for his sister’s resilience swelled. To Akeem, she said simply, “Thank you for seeing me safely to St. George’s.”
Akeem nodded once before taking his leave of them. In time, the conversation about the table shifted from recent events to future ones. The hotel would soon play host to one of Mr. Shepheard’s monthly balls, and a Mr. Northcott, who Rhys took to be another guest, had already requested the pleasure of a dance from Miss Tyndale.
“Miss Corbyn,” Lord Thorsby said, “I would be honored if you would save a dance for me. A waltz, perhaps.”
Rhys frowned. “Miss Corbyn’s waltzes are taken,” he said before she could reply, surprising Helen as well as everyone else at the table.
“They are?” Helen asked. The flush across her cheekbones had darkened, and he realized he was being high-handed again by not discussing the matter with her. But she enjoyed a bit of dash, and dash, by definition, didn’t allow for discussion.
“They are.” He held her gaze, although it required some effort, and added, “Each and every one.”
He was encouraged by the brightening of her eyes and the tiniest tilt of her lips. Then he tempered his dash just a bit to say, “Miss Corbyn, would you care to walk with me in the gardens?”
She angled her head, studying him. He held his breath and waited until, finally, she said, “I would.”
He rose and extended his arm to lead her down the steps of the veranda.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Helen’s stomach twisted in a hotblend of dread and anticipation as they crossed to the garden. It wasn’t unlike the feeling she had before stepping onto a ship.
The next steamer would leave for Alexandria at week’s end. While she expected Rhys and his sister would be eager to return to England, she didn’t know how she would bear to see him go.But if he meant to claim a waltz at Shepheard’s ball… he certainly couldn’t do that from across an ocean, no matter how dashing he might fancy himself. He remained quiet as these thoughts chased one another in her mind, so she broke the silence.
“Allof my waltzes, Mr. Evelyn? That seems a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“Someone once told me this land demands boldness. Unless you’d prefer boiled-turnip niceties…” He grinned, seeming quite pleased with himself, and she bit her lip.
“Cheekiness is not the same as boldness,” she said and his grin grew. “I’ve just admonished you,” she said with some exasperation. “Why does that make you smile?”
He leaned close and said, “Because you did it in your governess voice.”
“My what?”
