Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

Daphne knelt beside him, her attention completely on the documents. Noxley’s attention was completely on her, especially her bosom, as she launched into one of her stunningly boring lectures on Dr. Young’s work and where she agreed and disagreed with him, and why.

Perhaps because his mind was elsewhere, it did not put Noxley to sleep as you’d expect. Still, he did eventually acquire the vacant, dazed expression with which Miles was more than familiar. Those who could stay awake always looked that way after listening to Daphne for a time.

Boring, studious Daphne. If she didn’t have her nose in a book, she had it smudged with ink, while she drew her little charts and her rows and columns of alphabets, signs, words. Shy, reclusive, logical Daphne.

The same woman who’d set out — with Rupert Carsington! Hargate’s Hellion! — on a mad scheme to rescue her brother.

This wasn’t the sister Miles thought he knew. Yet this was Daphne, beyond question, droning on about Coptic and other brain-strangling arcana.

“The sun sign, for instance,” she was saying, pointing to a cartouche. “Here it stands alone, and I am quite sure it is ra or re, the Coptic for sun, whereas Dr. Young puts it in combination with a pillar symbol and gives the god the name Phre —”

A bloodcurdling scream cut her off. Another followed, then shouting.

Lord Noxley leapt up.

The noise intensified. From nearby came the patter of bare feet at a run. A servant shrieked, and others called on God to preserve them.

Miles made out the word “fire.” He quickly rose, too. Daphne came up more slowly.

Noxley ran out of the room. Miles started after him. Daphne grabbed his arm. “Wait,” she said quietly.

She gathered up an armful of papyri and looked about her expectantly.

A cloaked and hooded figure appeared in the doorway. “Trouble outside,” he said in thickly accented English. “This way. Come.”

“Who are you?” Miles demanded. “What kind of trouble? Let me see your face.”

Daphne pushed him, hard, toward the door. “Don’t ask questions,” she said.

“But he might be one of Duval’s —”

“He isn’t!” she snapped. “Stop talking. Start running.”

ONCE HE’D GOT them out of the main room and into the less well-lighted passage, Rupert had to throw back his hood, so he could see.

He heard Archdale whisper, “Who is he?”

“Rupert Carsington,” Rupert said.

“But you’re dead.”

“Not anymore,” Rupert said. They’d reached the stairway. He paused, withdrew the pistols from his girdle, and handed them out.

The brother said, “Better give her a knife. Daphne doesn’t —”

“Is it loaded?” Daphne said.

“Yes. Be careful.”

“But Daphne doesn’t —”

“Yes, she does,” Rupert said. He unhooked the rope from his sash. “Your room,” he told Daphne. “I’ve people waiting below your window.” He sent Archdale up after her, and followed, listening for signs of pursuit.

The boys had started a conflagration at the front door, where it would cause the most spectacle and confusion. But they could hardly haul a load of firewood, even if Egypt could supply such a thing. Straw and dung fueled the fire, and it would soon be seen for what it was.

Rupert had mere minutes.

LORD NOXLEY HAD reacted instinctively: he was under attack — Duval, no doubt — and he must organize his forces.

He’d grabbed a rifle and was nearly at the front door — after having to fight his way past panicked servants — when he realized his mistake. An open attack wasn’t in Duval’s style.

This was a diversion.

Lord Noxley hurried back into the qa’a.

They were gone, and most of the papyri with them.

He ran out of the room, shouting for Ghazi, then raced up the stairway to the large bedchamber he’d planned to transform into a bridal suite before too much time had passed.

She wasn’t there.

But he was.

When Lord Noxley burst in, the tall figure was at the window. He turned.

Carsington.

The dead man.

Not dead enough.

Lord Noxley cocked the rifle, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

RUPERT DOVE FOR the floor, rolled, and grabbed Noxley’s legs, bringing him down. The weapon discharged, and the ball pinged against the wall.

Rupert grabbed Noxley’s wrist and banged it on the stony floor. The man let go of the rifle — then shoved his elbow into Rupert’s gut, broke free, and scrambled onto his feet. He ran toward the window, but Rupert was quickly up again and close behind. He grabbed Noxley and flung him against the wall. Noxley bounced back, and came at him fist first. He thrust it into Rupert’s jaw with surprising force.

Rupert drove his fist into Noxley’s gut.

It was a harder gut than you’d think, and the man only grunted instead of crumpling in a heap as men usually did when Rupert hit them. In a flash, Noxley struck again. So did Rupert, and he was not gentle.

But Noxley went on, furiously giving back blow for blow, though he soon began to weaken.

“Give it up,” Rupert gasped. “You’re good, but I’ve got stamina.”

“She’s mine,” Noxley said. His hand moved, and something glinted there.

And Rupert thought knife, an instant before it thrust into him.

DAPHNE WAS AWARE of her brother, below, calling to her, but she went on climbing back up. She’d heard the gun go off, and waited, holding her breath, for Rupert to come out.

He didn’t.

But it wasn’t over, she realized a moment later. She heard thuds and thumps, the clatter of broken crockery. They were still fighting.

It wasn’t a great many men. Three at most. Perhaps only two.

She had to help Rupert before any more came, and he was outnumbered.

She found a place for her foot, and was looking for the next foothold to get her back to the window when something flew over her head. It made a small arc, then, as she watched, horrified, dropped to the rocks below. A body. It was human.

“Rupert!” she cried.

“Coming,” said an impossibly deep voice from over her head.

She looked up. Rupert leant out the window. “Don’t dawdle,” he said. “We haven’t got all night.”

THEY HAD NEARLY reached the landing place when they heard the shouts. Daphne glanced back. Men seemed to be coming from every direction. Some carried torches, in whose light she saw weapons gleaming. She saw a pair of figures pause at the body, before Rupert grabbed her arm and turned her about. “Run!” he said. “Archdale, get her to the boat.”

“No!” She drew her pistol. “You’re not facing them alone.”

A shot rang out. Men were running at them. She cocked her weapon and fired.

After that was chaos. Shouting, the clash of swords, the occasional blast of a firearm. Men started running toward them from the other side, from the river. She thought she recognized voices. The Isis’s crew had joined the fray.

She saw two men tackle Miles and bring him down. She ran to them and started beating the men with the butt end of her weapon.

It was a while before she noticed the noise subsiding.

Then a familiar voice called out. “Cease, lady, or the big Ingleezi dies, truly, this time.”

She turned, and saw everyone was looking the same way. Rupert was clutching his side. A dark stain was spreading outward from the place he held. Ghazi held a pistol to Rupert’s head.

The last of the fighting stopped.