As You Desire (6 page)

“Apparently not.” Harry grinned unrepentantly.

The anger that invariably came whenever Sir Robert thought about how Harry Braxton had wasted his considerable talents and intellect burned hotly to life. “You could have been a premier Egyptologist, Harry,” he said tightly. “You could have achieved something profound. Something lasting. With your abilities and your knowledge, you could have made a name for yourself. But instead, you’ve chosen to
squander your talents on”—he cast about for a suitably derogatory term and found one—“grave-robbing.”

“It’s a living.”

Sir Robert rose to his feet, leaning over his desk and slamming his palm down on its surface. “Don’t be impertinent!”

A hard light flashed for an instant in Harry’s pale eyes and then abruptly died away, leaving his expression once more unrepentantly insouciant. “Forgive me.”

“If you would just apply yourself. Just buckle down and start writing—”

“Too much work. But you didn’t ask me here to give me this lecture again, did you, sir?” he asked pleasantly.

With a deep sigh, Sir Robert sank back into his chair. “No. You’re right. I didn’t. Too bad, really. I like you, Harry. If things were different—”

“You mean if I were different,” Harry said flatly.

“Just so. If you were different, I’d even have encouraged Desdemona’s infatuation for you. I can’t help but think you would have learned affection for her. She’s a fine woman.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Deserves a fine, upstanding man. A man of importance, a man of property, a man of higher learning.”

“Yes. I know.”

There was a tension about Harry’s posture at odds with his casual tone, and it occurred to Sir Robert that Harry wanted out of this interview. Well, by
God, even if he wasn’t husband material, he and Desdemona were friends—great friends—and solicitude was the responsibility of friendship.

“I don’t think you do. Desdemona deserves the best man in the world. She deserves to have her desires realized. God knows, her parents never heeded her wants.” Normally, he wouldn’t have disclosed such private information, but Harry had pricked him on the raw with his laughter.

Harry’s lids obscured the direction of his gaze. He appeared to be studying his hands. Color rose on his lean cheeks. Good, Sir Robert thought, good. He should feel some shame for his carelessness.

“Sir?” Harry murmured softly.

Sir Robert hesitated. He’d never confided any of the more painful aspects of Desdemona’s childhood to anyone before. Certainly he’d never said anything to Harry. But then, he’d never wanted to enlist Harry’s aid regarding Desdemona before.

“She wasn’t like other children.”

“I would assume not.”

“She could read before she was two years old. My son was afraid her prodigious talent would be wasted.”

“I can imagine his concern,” Harry replied, watching him carefully.

“Concern?” Sir Robert echoed.
“Fear
. Desdemona scared her parents. Rather than accept responsibility, they hired tutors, scholars, the most prestigious they could afford, and they gave her to them. Old men more interested in dead languages than live children. And when they’d packed her head with all
these languages, they carted her about Europe so she could impress the world.”

“Yes?” Harry’s voice was so low Sir Robert had to strain to hear it.

“They forced her to work for hours, these zealous instructors, intent that not one measure of her vast intelligence be wasted or distracted. But every time she learned a new language, there was another to be learned. Every success was met with another challenge. There were no friends. A mind like hers could not be tainted with exposure to normal children.”

“Did she tell you this?” Harry looked stricken.

“In fits and starts. Little pieces she dropped casually over the years. That’s the most piquant part of it, Harry. She doesn’t even know how truly bizarre her upbringing was. She has nothing with which to compare it. Only her books, those romantic adventure stories she thinks I don’t know about. She doesn’t even realize how odd her life here is. But she guesses and she longs for something—”

“—something English and wholesome and romantic.”

“Yes.” Sir Robert leaned over the desk. His face grew warm. “There are few opportunities for Desdemona to meet acceptable gentlemen here. Is your cousin … an acceptable sort of man?”

Harry was silent for so long Sir Robert feared he was not going to answer, but then he cleared his throat and said, “Yes. Inasmuch as I know of Blake Ravenscroft, which is not so much after all, he is an unexceptional and very standard example of the breed.”

“The breed?” Sir Robert’s brows dipped in confusion.

“Worthy, dogmatic, dull.”

“Dull as in unintelligent?”

“No. Dull as in predictable. Blake can always be counted on to do the proper, the honorable thing. Always.”

Sir Robert grinned. “Sounds a fine young man.”

“Does he?” Harry cocked his head mockingly and Sir Robert shook his. Harry would never understand the appeal of integrity, principles, and probity. While Harry was loyal to a degree and trustworthy to another, he was utterly a rogue.

Still, Sir Robert had found out what he’d wanted to discover, and it was gratifying knowledge. He sat down, his gaze falling on the alabaster cylinder on his desk. “What do you think of this, Harry?”

Harry rose and came stiffly across the room. Probably rigid from posing in that insouciant position for so long, Sir Robert thought.

He took the cylinder from Sir Robert and turned it over, his gaze traveling over the smooth surface a minute before he placed it on the desk. “Old Kingdom. Cartouche is blurred. Possibly a seal.”

Sir Robert scowled. “Why would you say it’s Old Kingdom? I see no evidence—” He bent his head and studied the faint carvings in the stone.

Harry turned, his movement mechanical and graceless. “That’s Osiris’ cartouche. Osiris was worshipped from 2200 to 2100
B.C
. I think it might be a funerary seal.”

“By heavens, Harry, I do believe you’re right!” Sir
Robert looked up excitedly only to find himself alone. Damn waste of a wonderful mind, he thought soberly before returning his attention to the seal in his hand.

E
veryone who was anyone eventually dined at Shepheard’s Hotel. Occupying the site of what had once been the palace of the Muhammad Bey, the hotel had just undergone a sumptuous refurbishment and drew even greater crowds of cosmopolitan tourists than it did before. The wealthiest, the most elite, and the most cosmopolitan company Cairo had to offer dined here, and these days, that was cosmopolitan indeed. Old money and new, titles and scholars, dilettantes and adventurers crowded the spectacular, ornate terrace.

Harry, of course, had managed to secure a table not only on the terrace but at the rail, overlooking the lovely vista of parks and palaces.

Marta Douglass, the only woman in his party, looked over her fellow diners: Colonel Simon Chesterton, a fixture in Her Majesty’s Egyptian army for over twenty years; Cal Schmidt, her own distinctly American escort; and Lord Blake Ravenscroft,
Harry’s darkly handsome cousin. Pleased with the ratio of men to woman, Marta wondered whom the other two chairs awaited.

“I’d like to propose a toast.” Lord Ravenscroft raised his glass. The others followed suit. “To Lenore DuChamp.”

Marta Douglass waited for some further revelation regarding the woman they’d just toasted. None was forthcoming. Lord Ravenscroft was being purposefully enigmatic, for which Marta was distinctly relieved. Listening to men drone on about other women was tiresome.

As soon as they’d been introduced she’d recognized Blake Ravenscroft; an aristocrat, confident of his superior looks, his superior social situation, his superior breeding. Something of a rake, too, she decided.

Pity, so few rakes truly
liked
women. They clung to their cynicism like a talisman. Now, scoundrels were a different matter, she thought fondly. Her deceased husband had been a scoundrel. Too bad he had not lived. If one were a romantic, which she most certainly was not, one might even say tragic.

She had been widowed when Colonel Hick’s campaign of ’81 had resulted in her lieutenant husband’s death. Rather than return to the restrictive embrace of her husband’s disapproving family, she’d stayed in Cairo. It had proven an entertaining—sometimes even lucrative—decision.

But now it was time to think of the future. Soon she would be thirty-two. She had no substantial
wealth, and her looks, while still impressive, were beginning to show subtle signs of age.

Thankfully her sunburned American escort didn’t appear to notice the half-dozen years she seniored him. Beneath the cover of the linen tablecloth, his hand seemed to be taking on a life independent of his brain. Dear boy. She took a sip of wine just as Georges Paget, the deputy director of the Cairo Museum, appeared beside their table.

“Madame Douglass.” The plump, middle-aged Frenchman inclined his head.

“Monsieur.”

“Paget, join us,” Harry invited, waving a waiter forward and requesting another place be set. Immediately the waiter scurried to comply.

“If I do not interrupt,” Paget said, having tallied the accumulated wealth represented at: the table and gauged it worth his attention. French national interests not withstanding, Paget’s real interest was making a lucrative living “distributing” high-end relics. He’d apparently decided there might be a buyer present.

“Not at all,” Harry said, as the setting was completed and a waiter brought Paget another chair.

Throughout the introductions, Simon sat back in his seat, his enormous beard settling over his uniform like a dingy laprug. He stroked the graying mat, regarding them thoughtfully. Though first and foremost—so he claimed—an officer in Her Majesty’s army, Simon was also one of the; world’s most renowned collectors of Egyptian artifacts.

How fortuitous that he’d been assigned duty in
Cairo, Marta thought wryly, glancing at the thick gold band adorning his little finger. She masked her tweak of chagrin. A life-long bachelor, Simon could well afford to play the role of collector. It seemed monstrous that the only women Simon spent his money on were embalmed ones.

“How’s business, Georges?” Harry asked, drawing Marta’s attention. Not that she’d forgotten him. Not for a moment. His collar was rumpled and his jacket was creased. It didn’t detract from his appeal in the least.

“Business is thriving, Harry,” Georges said. “Only last week I was brought a piece I would stake my reputation came from Akhenaton’s tomb.”

“Come now, Georges, Akhenaton?” Harry asked.

“Who is Akhenaton?” Cal asked.

“Who is Akhenaton?”
Simon echoed in such extravagantly shocked tones that Marta wanted to laugh. “My dear lad, you really must spend some of that Yankee cash on books. Especially if you intend to take up archeology.”

“Akhenaton was a pharaoh,” Harry explained, his face alight with the avidity it often wore when he spoke of ancient Egypt. “A pharaoh who took it into his head to promote his own god above all the others. Rather adamantly forced the issue. Renamed himself after his god, built a city dedicated to him, compelled his people to worship him.”

“And this is the fellow whose tomb Mr. Paget thinks has been found?” Cal asked.

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Simon said with a superior smile.

“Why not?”

“As you can imagine,” Simon said, “Akhenaton wasn’t a very popular fellow with the priestly sects dedicated to the usurped deities. Put them all out of jobs, you see. After his death, the priests had a field day obliterating every instance of Akhenaton’s name, every physical reminder of him, his family, and his god. They abandoned his city and certainly desecrated his tomb. No royal artifacts have ever been found.”

“Before this.” Georges smiled like Mr. Carroll’s Cheshire cat. “I know where I will search. But it is hard work, a far distance from any towns. I need to hire an aggressive foreman to oversee the job.”

“What about that French fellow, Maurice Chateau?” Simon asked.

“Maurice Franklin
Shappeis
is no more French than you,” Georges said, obviously insulted. “Besides, he is no longer in my, er, the museum’s employ.” He turned to Harry. “I would watch very carefully the shadows, my friend. Maurice Shappeis harbors you no goodwill.”

“What did you do to this man, Harry?” Lord Ravenscroft asked, speaking for the first time since he’d made his toast.

“Nothing much.”

Georges snorted. “Harry demonstrates that Maurice’s method of enlisting young workers is not healthy for Maurice.”

Ah, Marta thought. She remembered now. Rumor had it that Harry had fought Maurice after the foreman’s work practices had resulted in the death of
some poor Arab boy. Maurice had fared badly in that fight. Very badly.

“I see,” Lord Ravenscroft said.

“I doubt that, Blake,” Harry said mildly. “In Egypt, being a site foreman is one of the more lucrative positions open to an uneducated man. Unless one knows where a cache of antiquities is holed up.” His glance at Georges invited confidences. Georges merely waggled his brows at Harry.