Beguiled by Her Betrayer

He set Cleo carefully aside and took two long strides to confront Sir Philip. ‘I have had more than enough of you, sir,’ he said and when the older man swung at him he ducked under his guard, hit him on the point of the chin and watched with nothing but pure satisfaction when Sir Philip’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell full-length on the sand.

That was definitely what had been missing from his diplomatic career to date: the opportunity for unthinking violence, Quin thought as the anger cleared and he stared down at the unconscious man at his feet.

‘Damn.’ It might be satisfying, but neither particularly honourable, nor practical. ‘Cleo—’

‘Don’t you dare apologise,’ she stormed at him.

Quin rocked back on his heels. You look magnificent when you are angry... No, don’t say it. You should lose your temper more often, it is good for you? No, probably not tactful either. The memory of those unspilled tears nagged at him. ‘But I should apologise.’

‘No. Not for hitting him, not for the kiss.’ She stood over her father. ‘But we can’t leave him here and he is much heavier than you.’

‘We could, this side is in shade now.’ Quin knelt and examined the unconscious man. He was breathing normally, there was no blood and nothing but a bruise on his chin and a small lump at the back of his head to be found. ‘If you fetch me a mat, I’ll roll him on his side so he doesn’t choke and put something under his head. He’ll wake up soon.’ And in no very good temper, either, but in the meantime...

Cleo went to start preparing supper, clearly with no expectation that Quin would assist her. He ignored the chivalrous instinct to take over and make her rest and went into Sir Philip’s workspace. The boxes were all packed, but the locks were still open. Quin knelt in front of the first and began to search, ears straining for the soft pad of feet on sand.

When he was through in there he went into the other man’s sleeping quarters, feeling beneath the mattress pad and pillow, sliding his fingers between neatly stacked shirts and linen in the trunk, flipping through the pages of the books on the floor by the bed.

‘Quin! Father is stirring, can you come and help him into a chair?’ Cleo called. The table was laid when he walked round from the far side of the tent from Sir Philip’s quarters, wiping his freshly washed hands on a towel.

‘Yes, of course. There you are, sir.’ He took hold under the man’s armpits and hauled him to his feet, then dumped him unceremoniously into a chair. He expected an outburst, but all he received was a glower. Woodward truly was a bully who would back down when challenged.

Cleo put platters on the table, added a basket of flat bread and sat down. It seemed that everyone was capable of pretending that nothing untoward had happened, even if conversation eluded all three of them.

The silence gave Quin the opportunity to review what he had found. Or had not found. There was no sign of any cipher keys, but that meant little. Quin was not certain he would recognise anything very sophisticated in the way of codes and if one was being used that involved substituting letters in a particular book, then he could spend a week and not find it. On the other hand he did know how to check correspondence for signs of tampering and some of the seals on the letters to Sir Philip had, to his eye, been opened once with a thin hot blade and resealed before the recipient had cracked open the seal.

Possibly all of them had been opened, he could not be certain when the seal had been completely destroyed.

‘More dates, Father?’ Cleo pushed the platter across the board and Quin watched the older man as he took a handful and began to strip them off the stalk. If the letters were being opened before he received them, then presumably he was unaware of what was happening, unless pains were being taken to protect him. But was he naïve or simply ignoring what was under his nose? Whichever it was, Cleo was surely innocent of any involvement, which would make the Duke of St Osyth a very happy man. It certainly made Quin feel better.

‘What will you do when we get to Cairo, Quin?’ Cleo asked.

‘Depends what the situation is. But I’ll be going home fairly soon, I suppose.’

‘To your wife, sir?’ Woodward said, so suddenly that Cleo dropped her knife.

‘I am not married, Sir Philip.’

‘Should be at your age. What are you? Twenty-seven?’

It was the first conversation Woodward had made that was not essentially about himself or his own interests. It sounded suspiciously like a father asking questions of his daughter’s suitor. Quin controlled the wry smile that tugged at his lips and answered truthfully. ‘I am twenty-eight, Sir Philip. And I intend setting up my household once I am settled back at home.’