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Some moments later,their travel things having been sorted and delivered to their room, Helen stood before the mirror and untied her bonnet strings. The room was charming and nicely appointed, with a bed large enough for two, a small sitting area with a damask couch and two chairs, and a writing desk. A balcony, framed with the same gauzy curtains she’d seen from the street, presented a pretty picture of Valletta’s busy port.
She’d pen today’s letter to her parents then see about posting the thick stack she’d accumulated over the voyage thus far. While she was almost certain her father had been teasing when he threatened to come for her, it wasn’t a theory she wished to test by neglecting to send her letters.
As Helen fluffed the hair at her temples, Lydia glided between her and the glass to pinch her own cheeks. With a silent press of her lips, Helen waited for the younger lady to finish before she resumed her repairs.
“I plan to write a letter now that we’re settled,” she said as Lydia strode to the balcony, “but then we could explore the city, if you’d like.”
“You write entirely too many letters.”
Helen bit her tongue and reminded herself that Lydia, who’d been orphaned at a young age, no longer had parents to whom she could write. It was a strategy Helen deployed whenever her empathy for the other woman ran low, and one she’d been obliged to use more and more of late.
The young woman leaned over the edge of the balcony and peered down the length of the hotel. When she brought her head back inside, Helen added cheerfully, “I’m certain your aunt and uncle would enjoy an outing to see the cathedral or perhaps the castle of St. Elmo.”
Lydia groaned. “You may accompany them. I’ve no wish to pass my time in a dusty church or crumbling castle. Unbutton me, please.” Lydia presented her back so Helen might play lady’s maid.
“How will you spend your afternoon?” Helen asked as she loosened the column of tiny buttons.
“I shall find some way to amuse myself. Perhaps I’ll find the other guests entertaining.”
Helen frowned. She wasn’t Lydia Tyndale’s keeper, but as the older—and more sensible—of the two of them, she felt compelled to remind her, “Of course, you can’t go about alone. Are you certain you wouldn’t rather join us? We can meet the other guests together at tea.”
Lydia stepped from the gown then pulled a fresh one from the wardrobe—predictably, she’d taken more than her share of the space. The gown was fetching in pale blue with bell sleeves and ruching at the elbows. Lydia tossed it carelessly onto the bed to await the ministrations of the hotel maid.
“I am quite certain,” Lydia said emphatically.
Helen bent to retrieve her writing set from her trunk as a soft knock sounded at the door. Lydia jumped up and pushed the blue gown at Helen. “That will be the maid, who I’m sure doesn’t speak a lick of English. Tell her to have a care not to crease the sleeves.”
——
Rhys quickly duckedback into his room as the door next to his opened. He recognized Miss Corbyn’s rich voice as she greeted the hotel maid in… Maltese? The words weren’t Italian—he knew enough of the language to know that much—but what young Englishwoman studied the native tongue of Malta?
He didn’t think Miss Corbyn had seen enough of him in London to recognize him. He didn’t wish to challenge the notion, though, so he remained out of sight behind his door. He listened, not understanding a bit of their exchange but enjoying the cadence of her voice as she gave the maid some sort of direction.
“Tell her not to burn the fabric!”
That voice, coming from the interior of the lady’s room, wasn’t nearly so melodious. Miss Corbyn paused in her speech, and Rhys could almost hear her eyes roll. He pressed his lips on a smile as he waited for her exchange with the maid to finish. When the door clicked shut, he waited another beat then, hearing nothing, slipped from his room.
He considered securing his valuables in Madame Goubau’s safe as he strode down the hotel’s long corridor, but he quickly discarded the notion. He’d never be able to relax while the amulet was out of his possession. Not that he was relaxed now, but at least he knew the blasted thing was secure and close at hand.
He ventured down to the docks and made the rounds of the shipping offices, inquiring as he’d done for the past two days for any earlier sailings. The responses were all the same.No(English),No!(Italian) andLe(which he finally understood to be the Maltese negative).
Fiona, he thought with a heavy heart,I’m coming.
As he made his way back to the Clarence, he spied Miss Corbyn’s plum skirts swishing their way toward the castle at the far end of Strada Reale. At least her party had gone out. With luck, he could avoid them for the duration of his stay.
——
Professor Tyndale wascaptivated by the history of the fortress at St. Elmo, and pulling him away in time for tea required the efforts of both Helen and his lady wife. Helen was certain they’d receive a tongue lashing from Lydia for their tardiness, but they returned to the unexpected sound of Lydia’s happy chatter. She and Mrs. Tyndale paused to remove their bonnets and Professor Tyndale his hat, and together they followed Lydia’s tinkling laughter into the hotel’s small parlor.
“Aunt! Uncle!” Lydia exclaimed on seeing them. She perched on the edge of a small velvet couch across from another couple and a lone gentleman. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her cheeks a charming pink. Helen was pleased to see the hotel maid had neither creased the sleeves of her blue gown nor burnt the fabric with her iron.
“Come,” Lydia said. “Meet my new friends. Mr. and Mrs. Sheffield are returning to York from India, and Mr. Evelyn, who has no wife to join him on his travels, sails with us to Alexandria. I’ve persuaded him to join us for tea.”
This last was spoken with lowered lashes and a dimpled smile cast in the gentleman’s direction. The foolish girl was oblivious or simply uncaring of the impropriety of persuading a single man to tea without a proper introduction.
For all of Lydia’s impropriety, Mr. Evelyn seemed a mannerly sort as he bowed politely over Mrs. Tyndale’s hand. He was a man of some height, with neither paunch nor frailty, but nicely made shoulders that filled a tailored coat. His dark hair was combed back to reveal a smooth brow beneath his widow’s peak, and his complexion bore the faintly bronzed hue of one who spent his time out of doors.
While the sum of these features was pleasing, it was his eyes that commanded Helen’s attention. Framed by small lines at the corners, they were grey and weightless like smoke and quite at odds with his sun-touched skin and dark hair. Set beneath a pair of thick brows, they lent him an air of inscrutability Helen suspected he’d not have had with ordinary brown eyes, and it took some effort to keep herself from staring.
