Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

Rupert was well aware that the Giza plateau lay across the Nile. He must be blind not to be aware. The famous pyramids were plainly visible from any number of places in the metropolis.

He’d asked the stupid questions just to see Mrs. Pembroke’s reaction.

“Mrs. Pembroke, I beg you will allow me to assist you,” said Noxley. “I am sure the consul general wishes to do all he can to help you, but his resources are limited.” He glanced briefly in Rupert’s direction. “Please allow me to put my staff at your disposal. And myself, of course. I am sure we shall get to the bottom of this very quickly.”

Far more quickly than Hargate’s brainless son, was politely left unsaid.

Rupert had to agree about the brainless part. He’d blundered badly. Why should she not discard him in favor of a man presenting clear signs of intelligence?

And how could Rupert blame her?

Noxious obviously knew her brother better than Rupert did. The man had lived several years in Egypt. He seemed to know everybody. He spoke the language.

“Why, thank you,” said Mrs. Pembroke. “I shall be very glad to have your help.”

Idiot, Rupert berated himself. Imbecile. Now Noxious would have all the fun of a search with her, and Rupert would end up in the desert, looking for rocks with writing on them that no one could read.

Then she and Noxley began to talk, as though Rupert didn’t exist.

He gave a mental shrug and redirected his attention to the partly open door. The dusky beauty lingered still.

What a hypocrite Noxious was, acting so prim when Rupert spoke of dancing girls, when a member of his lordship’s harem stood only a few yards away, half-naked and clearly objecting to her lord and master’s attention being diverted elsewhere.

She disappeared and reappeared at intervals, looking more and more vexed at each reappearance.

Watching her, Rupert only half-heard the conversation nearby. Noxley had some people he promised to talk to, starting with the men who’d come to dinner the other night. He’d send some servants out to collect the latest street gossip. He’d call on some district sheiks.

He summoned a servant and gave orders in Arabic. Mrs. Pembroke chimed in.

The servant exited.

Then it was time to leave.

A good deal more subdued than when he set out, Rupert escorted her home. He was vaguely aware of its being later than he’d supposed. He wondered how long they’d been at Noxious’s.

“Weren’t we going elsewhere?” he said as they reached her street.

“Weren’t you paying attention?” she said. “Lord Noxley is going to call on the others. It is very good of him. I had not realized how tired I was until now. But I never slept at all last night. I must have a proper night’s rest. I shall be no good at all in Giza otherwise.”

“Ah, so you’re going to Giza,” Rupert said wistfully. He would like to explore the inside of a pyramid, especially with her. He’d heard the passageways were dark and narrow.

“Yes, well, he doesn’t know that,” she said.

Rupert turned sharply toward her. But there was the hateful veil, hiding her expressive face. “How can he not know?” he said. “He’ll see you there.”

“Lord Noxley?” she said.

“Who else?” Rupert said.

“But he’s not going to Giza,” she said.

“He’s not?”

“No,” she said. “You are.”

They arrived at her door. “I am?” Rupert said stupidly.

She let out a long sigh. “Really, Mr. Carsington, I wish you would try to attend. Surely you heard him. He is like Vir — like Miles. They think women — Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to know, and you wouldn’t understand. But do pay attention now. You are taking me with you to Giza, no matter what he says. You are to come and collect me tomorrow at daybreak. Is that clear?”

“Clear as a bell,” Rupert said.

He saw her safely indoors, left the house, and with a wave at Wadid, passed through the gate and set off down the street, whistling.

ONCE MRS. PEMBROKE had gone, all the sunshine went out of his lordship’s countenance.

Asheton Noxley liked to have things his way — exactly his way. This wasn’t easy anywhere. In Egypt, it was particularly difficult because people here — even, or perhaps especially, Europeans — acted according to no known rules of civilized behavior.

Very early in his stay he had learnt that official documents became increasingly meaningless the farther away one was from the official who’d provided them. For instance, the pasha might give him the exclusive right to excavate at such and such a place or to remove this or that object. But if the site was in, say, Thebes, and the pasha four hundred fifty miles away in Cairo at the time, the one who actually got to excavate was the one who either paid the local officials the largest bribes or produced the largest band of thugs and ruffians to insure his rights.

Lord Noxley had found local officials unreliable. They accepted bribes from rival parties. They were accommodating one day and obstructive the next. They withheld workers, food, and boats when the mood struck them.

Consequently, he had amassed a large band of men he could depend upon to make people behave as they ought. He now employed agents in most of the major villages between Alexandria and the Second Cataract.

Though Miles Archdale and his handsome sister didn’t know about it, his lordship was making arrangements for them, too. His lordship was cultivating the brother, reputed to be one of those nearest to unlocking the secrets of the ancient script. They would make an ideal team, Lord Noxley believed. Together they would unearth a great find, greater than anything Belzoni had discovered.

Equally important, Lord Noxley would make the sister his viscountess. He’d wanted her from the first moment he saw her because she, rather like the papyrus her brother had bought, was a rarity.

Countless beauties in England had thrown themselves at him, and he’d had his pick of their exotic counterparts in Egypt. Mrs. Pembroke had no counterpart.

She was not pretty, not beautiful. He was not sure she was handsome. But her face was striking and her figure magnificent, and she was as rich as Croesus. Moreover, she was conveniently here. His lordship need not return to England to renew the tedious search for a suitable bride. He could remain in Egypt for years. When he did return, it would be to great fame and honors.

But someone had disrupted his plans. Archdale, one of the world’s great linguists, might be in deadly peril. Meanwhile the Earl of Hargate’s hellion son was sniffing about the future Viscountess Noxley’s skirts.

Lord Noxley sent for his agent Ghazi, who arrived within the hour.

Ghazi was his lordship’s right-hand assassin.

Lord Noxley told him what had happened and asked why he was one of the last to know.

“I will send men to Old Cairo,” Ghazi said. “They will discover who took your friend. But it is very strange. One day they steal the man. This I understand. They do it for a ransom. But today they steal a papyrus? This I do not understand. The merchant Vanni Anaz has an endless supply. He has men who make them, too. The peasants sell them in all the villages. Why go to the trouble of stealing?”

Lord Noxley explained.

“Ah,” said Ghazi. “But is it true?”

“Someone thinks so,” Lord Noxley said.

“It must be the French,” Ghazi said. “They grow desperate.”

This was because Lord Noxley’s agents were steadily driving the French away from the richest sites. He wasn’t sure desperation explained it completely, though. Had he erred regarding Archdale, mistaking secrecy for modesty?

“The question is, who possesses the means and is ruthless enough to undertake such villainies?” he said.

Apart from Lord Noxley himself, only one man met the requirements.

“Duval, then,” said Ghazi.

“I rather think so.”

“I will talk to his people.”

&nbsp

; The word talk, both men knew, was a euphemism for a very broad range of activities.

But Lord Noxley knew Ghazi didn’t require specifics. His lordship only added, “And that idiot Carsington.” He briefly described Lord Hargate’s fourth son. “He’ll be in Giza tomorrow. I want him out of the way.”