Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

“Don’t faint,” he said.

“I. Never. Faint.” Four heaving, irate syllables.

“The way seems clear as far as the portcullis,” he said. “Beyond that is the first passage. I doubt anyone would lurk there, so near the entrance.”

She directed her churning mind to practical rather than hysterical thoughts. “Twenty-two feet seven inches to the portcullis,” she said. “The portcullis section itself is six feet eleven inches.” But while her rational mind calculated the remaining distance, the other, darker part of her being was engulfed in physical awareness: the size and strength of his hands holding her steady…his nearness, a breath away in the small space…the musky scent of Male, mingled with faint traces of smoke and soap.

The thin shirt under her jacket clung damply to her skin. She was swimming in heat and confusion, and she longed, desperately, to be anywhere else, safe and clean, with her brother.

She was aware as well of a darker longing, one she’d rather not examine too closely. The two feelings tangled, and she understood only that she was weary and confused and desperately unhappy. She bowed her head and leaned toward the man who wasn’t her brother or even her brother’s trusted friend, until her turban touched his chest.

He grasped her shoulders. “No fainting,” he said. “No weeping, either.”

Her head shot up. “I was not weeping,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “Were you finding me irresistible? Sorry.” He tried to draw her back.

Daphne pulled his hands from her shoulders and retreated as far as she could in the small space. “You are impossible,” she said.

“If you were not fainting or weeping or making an advance, what were you doing, then?” he said.

“Succumbing to despair,” she said. It was true enough, if not the whole truth. “But it was momentary. I am fully recovered. Shall we proceed, and ought I do so with my knife drawn?”

“You’d better keep it where it is for the moment,” he said. “Otherwise you might stab me to death accidentally.”

“If I stab you to death,” she said, “it will not be accidental.”

AS IT HAPPENED, neither Mrs. Pembroke nor anyone else attempted murder or mayhem on the way out. Rupert emerged with her into the sunlight unscathed.

Then followed a chain of events with which he was more than familiar. A large body of men closed about them and, despite Mrs. Pembroke’s furious protests in what seemed to be five different languages, arrested them.

GHAZI, WHO STOOD among the onlookers, found it amusing that Chephren’s pyramid, which had not housed a corpse in thousands of years, now held two.

The police found the two guides, their throats slit, on the stones piled alongside the ladder. That was all they found. They could not discover who had screamed. No one in the vicinity had heard or seen anything.

This was because everyone had been gathered about and listening raptly to a Cairene’s tale of the evil genie who lived on his neighbor’s roof and played cruel tricks on passersby.

The Cairene was one of Ghazi’s men.

Ghazi had sent another to the district police with a tale of a mad Englishman — the one who’d tried to kill a soldier the other day — bent on evildoing at Chephren’s pyramid. Ghazi’s associate had gone well-supplied with money, to encourage the police to act quickly.

Ghazi had had to improvise, and swiftly, because matters had not proceeded as planned.

Two of his men had hidden in Chephren’s pyramid just before dawn. They’d been awaiting the Englishman, in order to help him have an accident.

No one was expecting the woman.

Luckily, Ghazi had not sent stupid men into the pyramid. They knew the Englishwoman was very important to Lord Noxley — the man they knew as the Golden Devil. The men knew they must not harm her. They also realized — as stupid men would not — that it was unwise to harm the Englishman while she was about. She would make a fuss — much as she did at present — and force the English consul general to make a fuss, too. This would annoy Muhammad Ali. When the pasha was annoyed, people’s heads and necks went separate ways. Sometimes there was torture first. Occasionally, a disemboweling.

Consequently, Ghazi’s men had reassessed the situation and killed the guides instead. No one would make a fuss about a couple of dead Egyptian peasants. But word of the incident would quickly travel, and other Egyptians would decide it was healthier to stay away from the English lady and her concerns.

This, Ghazi decided, was more than satisfactory. She would have no one to turn to but his master.

Meanwhile, Ghazi would look for another opportunity to get the man called Carsington out of his master’s way.

MEANWHILE, IN BULAQ, Cairo’s port, Miles Archdale’s servant Akmed was applying for work on one of the finer Nile boats. Nearly as well known as the pasha’s barge, the Memnon belonged to a foreigner who had lived in Egypt for several years.

The captain studied Akmed’s bruised face for a long time. “A fighter?” he said at last.

“I had trouble with some soldiers,” Akmed said. It was true enough, though not the cause of his injuries. The soldiers had been ready to give him trouble — though the tall Englishman who’d so bravely intervened got the worst of it. The English had been very good to Akmed. He wished he could repay them in some way. But for now all he could do was run away.

Yesterday, when the false policemen came, he’d recognized one of the voices. It belonged to one of the men who’d taken his master captive the day before. That was when Akmed remembered they’d looked for a papyrus among his master’s belongings and had been furious when they couldn’t find it. They’d beaten Akmed and left him for dead because he would not tell them where it was. They would have done the same had he told them. They wanted him dead. He was the only witness to the kidnapping. As soon as they discovered they hadn’t killed him, they’d be after him — and any who tried to protect him would suffer.

He had to leave Cairo.

But he had no money and dare not seek help from his family or friends.

And so he’d come to Bulaq, to look for work on a boat, one that would take him far away from Cairo as quickly as possible.

This one promised to suit his purposes.

“We need fighters,” the captain said. “Some brigands have taken an Englishman hostage. We go to hunt for him. My master, the owner of this boat, commands us to be ready to sail by daybreak tomorrow. It is dangerous work, and needs men of courage as well as skill.”

Akmed’s heart beat with joy. Silently he thanked his Maker for this chance to help his master. He told the captain he spoke English and a little French, and had waited upon English travelers before and knew their customs. He knew how to shave them, dress them, cook and sew for them.

“Regrettably, I have no letters of reference,” Akmed said. “The soldiers destroyed all my belongings.”

The captain smiled. “Anyone can forge a letter,” he said. “My master judges by performance. Do well, and you’ll be well. Do badly, and it will go badly with you.”

And in this way, all unwitting, Akmed became an employee of the Golden Devil.

THE POLICE ESCORTED Rupert and Mrs. Pembroke to a guardhouse in Cairo, and it was late the following afternoon before Mr. Beechey was able to arrange for their release. By this time, Mrs. Pembroke was in a murderous rage, and Rupert had to take her firmly by the arm as they left the guardhouse, to prevent her doing an injury to one or several members of the police force.

They had immediately disarmed Rupert but had not even searched her. Having quickly perceived that his so-called Maltese translator was a she, not a he, they foolishly assumed she was harmless. They kept her separated from her alleged accomplice for reasons of propriety rather than any fear of the two “suspects” combining forces.

To make sure the police continued in ignorance, Rupert hustled her away from the place and whistled for transportation. Two donkey drivers with their beasts came running. Rupert picked her up and planted her

on one donkey and swiftly mounted the other. She glared at him but gave the drivers the direction, and off they went, the men running ahead, the donkeys trotting behind through the crowded streets.

Her servants who, amazingly, had not run away when the police arrived at the pyramids, had returned to Cairo when their mistress was arrested. When she came home, they bustled into action. Fresh coffee and a large tray of un-English food appeared within a quarter hour of her arrival.

The mistress glowered at it, then yanked off her turban and threw it on the floor.

“I have let myself be made fool of!” she cried. “If I had listened to Lord Noxley, this never would have happened. But no, I had to go to Giza on a wild-goose chase with a man who is a known troublemaker. Had anyone seen fit to inform me of the number of times you’ve been arrested, I should have left you to rot in the dungeon! I might have found Miles by now, instead of wasting an entire day and more!”

Her hair tumbled about her shoulders. It was thick and wavy and gleamed like red gems where the light caught it. Ruby and garnet. And her eyes were like…No, they were not like emeralds. This was a different green.

Rupert dropped onto the divan and considered the various items in the small dishes. “You gave me to believe that Noxious wanted you to sit quietly at home while he went about Cairo interrogating his friends. You seemed unhappy about this method.”

“That is not the point! The point is…” She trailed off and looked about the room. Her gaze settled upon the wooden Egyptians staring back mutely from the shelf.

“I should have gone mad, sitting at home, waiting,” she said tautly.

“Instead, you went to Giza and came back with a clearer picture of your enemy,” Rupert said.

The green gaze shifted to him. “I did?”

“Of course you did,” Rupert said. “You’re a trifle overset at the moment, else you’d realize how much you discovered.”