The Passion of Cleopatra (Ramses the Damned 2)

When the sharp tip met her scalp, she cried out.

A careless mistake, and a teasing reminder of how out of sorts she'd grown.

She had already called for a taxi. It was waiting for her when she stepped outside.

Once she'd settled into the backseat and informed the driver of her destination, she dabbed at the area of her head where she'd poked herself. A few droplets of blood came away on her fingers. She licked them up. God forbid she stain her dress.

*

The train had just pulled into the station when pain knifed through Sibyl Parker's scalp. Crippled, she hit the carpeted aisle knees first.

Passengers on all sides extended helping hands. In seconds, she was back on her feet, apologizing profusely for her carelessness. Trying her best to give no indication of the searing pain that continued to strobe across the roof of her skull.

Thank God she had convinced Lucy to remain in their suite at Claridge's.

If her lady's maid and companion had seen this display, she would have insisted they turn around that instant. Whatever Sibyl's affliction, it had worsened considerably over the past day. Impossible not to believe that the closer she drew to this Mr. Ramsey, the more severe her condition became.

But nothing would keep Sibyl from this party. Her publisher had arranged for her to attend in response to Sibyl's inquiries about the strange Mr. Ramsey. And when Sibyl had arrived at Claridge's, the invitation had been waiting for her along with more recent newspaper stories about the mysterious Egyptian--and the assurance that the countess was quite delighted to have a celebrated American author coming to the event.

Once the train came to a complete stop, the attentions of the other passengers left her.

She felt safe reaching up into her nest of hair.

Had this painful little episode left a mark?

Her fingers came away dry. She felt no welt or open wound.

It was a strange, new, and inexplicable aspect of this experience. As strange as her new bouts of sleeplessness. If that was the right word for it. A change had begun to overtake her in the late-night hours following her arrival in London. It had begun to feel as if her body longed to stay awake but couldn't quite manage it, and so the result was something close to a fugue.

And now this. A phantom pain that left no mark and spilled no blood.

It is lovely to meet you, Mr. Ramsey. I know I may seem quite mad, but I have traveled far to see you because you have quite literally haunted my dreams these past few months and...

She would think of something better than this by the time she reached the party, she was sure.

She hoped.

23

The Rutherford Estate

The party seemed to be unfolding exactly as Edith had planned, and this delighted Julie to no end. Indeed, Edith had seemed so pleased by the temperate weather and the initial steady flow of arriving guests, she'd made no comment on Julie's unique ensemble: a man's white suit tailored just for this occasion, complemented by a white silk vest, scarf, and top hat.

Julie and Ramses mingled on the grass, while their hosts, Edith and Alex, greeted new arrivals at the house's front door. They were the guests of honor, and therefore Edith had positioned them outside, where they could be enticements for attendees to move quickly through the house and onto the western lawn.

To Julie's eye, this plan seemed to be working quite well.

Over the shoulders of the couple who had cornered her, she watched the stream of guests proceeding through those first-floor rooms, which had been left open to facilitate a quick passage outside. The rest of the house was closed.

Just outside the terrace doors, liveried waiters offered each guest a glass of wine, then gestured for the new arrivals to descend the stone steps leading to a lawn dotted with Oriental rugs, tables, and chairs.

Because the day was only slightly overcast, Edith had raised only a fraction of the tents she'd ordered. As a result, each arrival was welcomed by a perfect view of Julie and Ramses standing amidst parasols and handsome suits and flowing white dresses designed or inspired by Madame Lucile, all of it hemmed in by the parallel walls of hedge that bordered both sides of the western lawn, and the breeze-rustled ash trees dotting the rolling hills beyond.

The board members of Stratford Shipping were all in attendance, along with wives and older children, and Julie had spent a fair amount of time chatting with them all.

As penance for turning a blind eye to his late son's thieving, Julie's uncle Randolph had worked diligently to place himself back in the good graces of his board members while he righted the company's course. Their presence here was a sure sign her uncle's efforts were succeeding.

Despite the cloudy sky, it was still bright enough out that only one or two guests had commented on her sunglasses. Indeed, many of the guests wore sunglasses of their own, making them difficult to recognize when they first approached. Julie was tempted to get rid of the sunglasses altogether, and let the story of the mysterious fever do its work. Someday soon she would do this.