Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

SOME HOURS LATER, after the bride and groom had retired to their assigned apartments, their eldest son joined Lord and Lady Hargate once more in the garden.

“Well, well,” said his lordship. “It appears some unfortunate assassin got his head cut off for nothing.”

“And the prodigal son returns triumphant,” said Benedict. “Married. To Cousin Tryphena’s brilliant and handsome young widow friend. The one with the handsome fortune.” He smiled a very little. Smiles had never come as easily to him as to Rupert, and less easily still in the last two years.

“Tryphena will be delighted,” said her ladyship.

“I had wondered why you sent him to Egypt, of all places,” Benedict said.

His father merely lifted an eyebrow.

“Well, I am happy for him,” Benedict said. “They suit each other very well, and naturally, the end justifies the means. At any rate, he’s settled at last. Now you may give your full attention to Darius.”

With that he took his usual distant leave.

His parents stood looking after him.

“Not Darius, I think,” said Lady Hargate.

“No,” said his lordship. “Not Darius.”

Postscript

In August, Jean-Claude Duval boarded a ship bound for France. He took with him seventy-five cases of antiquities he’d collected in recent years. Since he failed to include the troublesome papyrus (and certain other objects) on the list provided to the customs officials at Alexandria, no one could be sure whether in fact he had finally obtained it. It was known only that the papyrus did not find a home in the Louvre, and the ship carrying him and his collection was lost in a storm off the coast of Malta.