Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

One of the guards had them enthralled with a story — about a white-haired ghost who’d caused a boat to collide with a sandbank and sink near Minya a week ago.

THE GHOST, THE guard said, had a very small beard, even though it appeared as a full-grown male. It was tall — almost as tall as the English sir — and dressed like a foreigner. It was very pale and wearing chains. Several people had seen it, the guard said.

Some on shore had seen the apparition on the boat as it was sinking. They saw two men jump into the water and swim away in terror. The ghost appeared again upriver later the same night, floating toward the tombs, then again a few nights later, going to the river. Everyone avoided the tombs beyond the red hill now, because of him.

Ordinarily, Daphne would have simply smiled at the tale. Egyptians’ lives were thickly populated with supernatural beings. But the “white” hair and small beard gave her pause, and she asked for a fuller account.

As she translated for Mr. Carsington, she saw the stiff, distant expression fade from his countenance and an arrested look come into his dark eyes. He, too, had guessed the ghost’s identity. Like her, though, he was careful to show no more than a mild interest in the tale.

But when the guard was done and had rejoined the others, Mr. Carsington said in a low voice, “Your brother, I collect.”

Her heart thrummed — with hope, anticipation, and fear, too. She composed herself, met his gaze, and nodded. “The guard says the boat broke apart when it stuck on a sandbank. Several corpses have turned up but no survivors, apparently. He must have escaped.”

“He played a ghost to keep people away,” Mr. Carsington said. “Very wise of him.”

“Miles has a vivid imagination,” she said. “When it comes to solving practical problems, he can be amazingly sharp and quick, often ingenious.”

“That’s good,” Mr. Carsington said. “From all I’ve heard, Minya isn’t a safe place for a solitary European.”

In truth, even with a large, armed escort and Mr. Carsington towering over everybody, Daphne had been glad to leave the town behind.

Leena hadn’t exaggerated about the people. Daphne had never before seen in one place so many one-eyed individuals or so many sickly and stunted children. She knew the eye disease opthalmia was one of Egypt’s perils, and she’d brought sulphate of copper and citron ointment, the medicines recommended to treat it.

The Egyptians had no medicines and took no precautions against disease. Magic and superstition ruled. She’d seen too many small children — even helpless babies — with flies clustered upon their eyes. She’d seen a mother prevent a child from brushing them away. She’d also heard that some boys were deliberately mutilated to make them ineligible for conscription into Muhammad Ali’s army.

The flies and scarred faces were reason enough to pass through the town quickly, even had it been friendly. It was not friendly. The people were sullen and evasive.

Miles, who’d been in charge of planning their journey, had told her about the two hundred miles of marauders. No wonder he’d done what he could to keep people away.

“The Egyptians believe in an immense variety of jinn, good and bad,” she told Mr. Carsington. “Ghosts, ghouls, and afreets — demons — are species of jinn. They frequent graveyards and tombs.”

“Well, he’s not haunting the burial ground at the moment,” Mr. Carsington said. “I daresay he only comes out at night.”

“There are tombs a short distance southward,” she said, pointing. “Near the red mound, the Kom el Ahmar.”

“Then we’d better have a look,” he said.

IT WAS DANGEROUSLY close to sunset before they found any sign of Archdale, and then it was clear they’d come too late.

As the day waned, their Egyptian entourage had grown increasingly reluctant to continue the search. At present, the guards waited outside the tomb. Most of the crew ventured only a few feet inside the entrance. Only Tom and another young servant, Yusef, carrying the torches, had bravely followed Rupert and Mrs. Pembroke into the interior.

Deep within the tomb they found the remains of a cooking fire and other signs of habitation. This was not unusual, Rupert knew. Foreign explorers often took up residence in tombs and temples, as did some natives.

But this tomb held pieces of chain, as well as the remnants of English clothing of high quality. While dirty and torn, it was royal raiment compared to what the average Egyptian peasant wore. No native tomb dweller would have left such riches behind, in plain sight.

At the moment, Tom and Yusef stood in a corner, talking in subdued tones.

Mrs. Pembroke had the ragged garments and pieces of chain in her hands. She was staring at them, her torch-lit countenance bleak.

The heartbroken look only added to the nasty stew of emotion Rupert was experiencing.

He’d rather not think about how he felt or she felt. He wanted to get out of here and on to the next thing. But he had to do something, say something. She’d started the search so eagerly and hopefully, and she was so bitterly disappointed.

Not to mention that Rupert was still disturbed about what had happened earlier.

While he wasn’t a saint, he did have rules, simple sporting rules regarding what a gentleman did and did not do. A gentleman didn’t bed an unmarried lady, for instance. He did bed unwed women who weren’t ladies: actresses, ballet dancers, courtesans, and such. He might bed a married lady — but Rupert had always shied away from such liaisons, deeming them far too complicated. Widows, though, weren’t complicated. Virginity breached, husbands permanently out of the picture, they were supposed to be fair game.

He was desperately in lust with this widow. She’d shown clear signs that she wasn’t indifferent to him. She wasn’t easy to seduce, and the challenge made her even more attractive.

Besides, she had the face and figure of a goddess and a gigantic brain. Everyone knew goddesses were more difficult and dangerous than the common run of females. Look at what happened in the Greek myths. You couldn’t expect an extraordinary woman to behave like an ordinary one.

If she’d hit him with the rifle butt or bloodied his nose or at the very least given him a blistering scold earlier, he would have accepted the punishment cheerfully. He’d misbehaved, after all, using a minor accident as an excuse to take an outrageous liberty.

Instead, the baffling creature blamed herself and apologized to him, of all things! She was vexed with herself instead of with him. This made no sense. Worse, it made him feel all wrong inside. He was experiencing the ghastly sensation he remembered from boyhood: conscience. It hadn’t troubled him in years. Now it yowled at him and tied his innards in knots.

Because of a bit of a grope with a widow who’d said in plain English that she liked him physically!

“Well, we’re a few days late, it seems,” he said finally. “Still, looking on the bright side, we know we’re on the right track: he isn’t being held captive in Cairo. He’s less than a week ahead of us.”

“Or behind us,” she said. “He might be trying to return to Cairo.”

Or he might be dead. Or he might have moved on to another hiding place. The cliffs were riddled with tombs. It was a miracle they’d found any sign of Archdale after only half a day’s search.

But she knew this as well as Rupert did, and if he didn’t say something to rouse her spirits, she’d lose heart. Her face would get the dead-white, taut look that upset him almost as much as actual weeping.

“You’d think Noxious would have found him by now, then,” Rupert said. “You’d think he’d be looking diligently. Everyone stops at Minya. Surely he’d have heard about the boat mishap, and put two and two together. It hardly takes a genius. After all, I worked it out.”

She looked up, and he saw her come out of whatever dark place of her immense brain she’d gone into. Her countenance brightened. Even in the wavering torchlight Rupert could see her remarkable eyes shifting back and forth.

“Good grief, I’d forgotten about him,” she said

. “But there’s been nothing to remind me. No one’s mentioned him. Isn’t that odd? His boat is distinctive, you said. He’s been up and down the Nile several times. People would recognize his boat. The kashef would know him.”

“Not so strange,” Rupert said. “The locals aren’t the most forthcoming lot of Egyptians we’ve ever encountered.”

“Then we’ll have to make them talk,” she said. Clutching her brother’s effects to her bosom, she hurried out.

AS THEY WERE returning to the landing place, Daphne was calculating her stores, debating whether she ought to sacrifice another set of the pistols or perhaps some of Miles’s instruments as bribery. She was glad to have a plan of sorts, something productive to think about.

She had not realized how deeply — painfully so — she’d hoped, until the hope was dashed. She had not realized, truly, how much she missed Miles until she held his filthy shirt in her hands. Then to see the broken pieces of chain…and imagine what he’d endured, and feel so helpless…She’d told herself not to succumb to despair, to be grateful she had not found his body. She’d told herself not to weep. It would avail nothing.

But never had she wanted so much to sink to her knees and cry until she had no tears left.

She was recovered now, though, thanks to Mr. Carsington’s mentioning Lord Noxley.

His lordship had pointed out how quickly news traveled here. It was odd that no one in Minya had said a word about him. His boat must have stopped there for supplies. Otherwise, they must wait until they reached Asyut, nearly a hundred miles away.

Calculating bribes and speculating about his lordship kept her mind occupied all the way back to the landing place. As they neared the water, a young woman pushed past the men and thrust a baby wrapped in dirty rags in Daphne’s face.

“Help my child,” the woman cried in anguished Arabic. “Give the babe your magic, English lady.”