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Hoisting his leather satchel higher on his shoulder, he considered his options. He’d passed a hotel at the foot of Strada Reale that appeared comfortable and well-kept, but more importantly, it lay within steps of the port. He could stay there and check the ships regularly. There was nothing else for it unless he wished to swim to Africa.
——
Two days later, Rhys tipped the hotel boy and surveyed the generous luncheon the kitchens had sent up. Quail and eel, roasted vegetables, bread and honey and dates, wine, coffee and a jelly or some such that jiggled a bit when he shook the bowl. It was more than an entire company of ravenous men could eat, and he was but one man with little appetite.
Despite his regular visits to the harbor office, no other ships had magically appeared to whisk him to Alexandria, and his anxiety had stretched until he thought it might break with an audible snap.
He’d be no use to Fiona if he were weak from hunger, though, so he forced in a slow breath and lifted the filigreed lid on the coffee. He poured a cup and sniffed at the dark brew. It was suspiciously thick, but he took a tentative sip as he watched the bustling port below his balcony window. For all the English pomp over Turkish coffee, he’d never grown accustomed to it. His lip curled at the heavy bitterness, and he emptied the remainder of the cup into a leafy potted plant.
Below, an elderly couple accompanied by two young women in elegant silks made their way to the harbor office. Two porters led their party, driving donkey carts heavily laden with trunks and bandboxes.
Rhys chewed a date without tasting it as he observed their movements. He hoped they weren’t sailing for Alexandria, for they’d be sorely disappointed with the delay. The gentleman entered the P&O agent’s office while the ladies waited outside, and Rhys sliced a bite of quail as he studied them.
One of the young women, a tall, slender figure in pale grey stripes, shaded her eyes against the bright Maltese sun and gazed about the quay with lazy disinterest. Even from the distance of his balcony, he could tell she had fine features, with a superior tilt to her nose and sable hair that curled beneath her bonnet. In short, she’d be a handful, and probably not a delightful one.
Her companion was shorter, and although he would not have described her as plump, she had curves where there ought to be curves. There was a rare energy about her that the other lady lacked, a crisp vibrancy that went beyond the rich hue of her gown to color the very air.
She swayed slightly with the legs of one newly landed, and her gown of plum silk shimmered as she moved until it turned nearly black. It was one of those curious fabrics that appeared one color in a certain light until the wearer turned to reveal another, richer hue. Fiona had redone her drawing room some months past, rhapsodizing over curtains that changed color depending on one’s perspective. Shot silk, he thought she’d called them.
The shot-silk lady plucked a book from the depths of her pleats and turned to her place. The volume wasn’t one of the tiny, journal-type books the ladies carried about either, but a full-sized tome that left Rhys wondering what else she concealed within the folds of her skirts. An artist’s set, perhaps, complete with easel? The thought caused a rare smile to tip his lips.
When she shifted to speak with the older lady, more of her face was revealed in profile. There was something about the curve of her cheek that seemed familiar, and Rhys leaned forward with new interest.
The lady in stripes turned then and spied him watching them. She stilled for a beat and then, rather predictably, her lips curved into a coy smile. Caught, Rhys could do nothing but nod politely.
Her companion turned more fully toward him, and recognition caused his heart to thump in his chest. He hurriedly ducked back into the shadows of his suite.
It was none other than the jasmine-scented Miss Helen Corbyn who stood beneath his window. Daughter of the president of the Royal Astronomical Society, granddaughter to Lord Something-Or-Other, disrupter of thieves.
The devil take it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Areprieve! Despite her eagerness to reach Africa, Helen could hardly believe her good fortune to have two more days on terra firma. The sailing from London, around the peninsula to Marseilles, and finally to the port at Malta had been every bit as horrific as she’d expected. The expense of her first-class passage was a shame, as most of her fine meals had been cast over the side of the ship in spectacular fashion.
So no, she certainly didn’t mind a brief respite before she must set foot on another floating craft of torment.
Even as Helen silently rejoiced over this latest turn, Lydia Tyndale huffed a sigh at the professor’s news. “Truly, Uncle? We must kick our heels here for two more days?” Her nose wrinkled at the noisy and industrious port. Lydia crossed her arms and if not for her voluminous skirts, Helen thought they might have seen her stamp a slippered foot on the rough cobbles.
“There appear to be a number of hotels nearby,” Helen said. “I’m certain we can find acceptable rooms for the duration, and we’ll be close at hand when theOrientalis fit to sail again.”
To Helen’s surprise, Lydia brightened, and a speculative look came into her eyes as she pointed at the building behind them. “There! This looks fine enough, don’t you think, Uncle?”
Helen checked her frown. Lydia Tyndale was rarely pleasant for the sake of being pleasant, and her about-face was most suspicious. The younger lady’s eye was trained on a point two stories up, and Helen followed her gaze to a row of balconied suites. Several windows were open to allow gauzy curtains to flutter in the sea breeze, but the colonnaded balconies were empty of guests.
The establishment was well situated to command a full view of the port. A small plaque near the entrance declared it the Clarence Hotel, kept by a Madame Goubau, and Helen quickly thumbed her guidebook to the appropriate page.
“The Clarence,” she said. “Wilkinson indicates thetable d’hôteis at six o’clock, and the house has the advantage of hot and cold baths.”
“Yes,” the professor said with a slow stroke of his side whiskers. “I suppose this hotel will do as well as any of them.”
Lydia’s lips curved in satisfaction, only to fall again some moments later on learning she and Helen would be required to share a room. “But Uncle,” she protested, “surely there are enough rooms for us to have our own? Miss Corbynreads,” she explained. When her uncle only blinked at this indictment, she added in an overloud whisper, “In themorning. She rises much too early for polite society.”
“Er, well, the ship’s delay has left many travelers to seek their accommodations, Lydia,” the professor explained with a gentle pat atop his niece’s hand. “It’s only while we’re in port, and then we’ll see about securing your own cabin aboard theOriental.”
In an attempt at keeping the peace, Helen threaded her arm through the younger lady’s. “I solemnly promise not to read before nine,” she said. Lydia blanched at that, and Helen wondered not for the first time how the professor had come to have such a spoiled young lady for his niece.
——
