The Other Guy's Bride (15 page)

“Mm. This is delicious. Do try a slice of the duck breast, Professor Tynesborough,” Sir Robert said, waving his fork invitingly at a piece of perfectly grilled meat enrobed in a rich pomegranate brandy reduction, little pearls of glistening couscous cozying up next to it.

The professor shook his head regretfully. “I dare not out of pity for my poor camel. I swear I’ve gained ten pounds since our trip began.”

“Haji, then you must help me out here,” Sir Robert said, turning to him. “I can’t do the cook justice by myself, and while he’s the most prickly, easily offended of chaps, he’s a dashed good cook and I should hate for him to give notice.”

Haji doubted whether this was likely; they were more than a hundred miles out in the desert. Nonetheless, he speared a piece of the fork-tender meat and transferred it to his plate. He admitted that the cook had extraordinary talents. Where Sir Robert had found him and how he’d convinced the Coptic chef to come along on their “rescue mission” was a mystery. But then, Haji conceded, maybe not so great a mystery: Sir Robert had probably offered him a salary he could not refuse.

Sir Robert had spared no expense on this trip. They were seated under a tented pavilion, the open sides covered with gauzy netting that kept the flies at bay and billowed prettily in the slight breeze. White linen covered the table, and crystal and silver sparkled in the slanting sunlight. Beneath silver domes, an array of exquisite dishes awaited their perusal, including traditional Arabian fare such as a refreshing salad of chopped tomatoes with coriander and mint, chickpeas stewed in garlic, lemon, and olive oil, and tiny grilled pigeons stuffed with grapes.

The indulgences didn’t stop outside the dining pavilion, either. Each day in the early afternoon two dozen porters and attendants set up a small town’s worth of tents, complete with mattresses and pillows, their striped awnings stretching out over the front and back flaps to capture any passing breeze and thus ameliorate their daily afternoon naps. Sir Robert dearly loved his afternoon naps.

Once the sun had sunk low enough, the
fellahin
packed it all up again and they’d mount their cantankerous camels and sally forth for another three to four hours before their
reis
, Zayed—another of Sir Robert’s personal hires—called an end to the day’s progress. Then the
fellahin
would once more pitch the tents and set up camp as the chef prepared a final light repast for their dinner. After that they retired to their tents only to be woken before dawn with coffee and croissants followed by a few hours of travel before Sir Robert deemed it too hot to travel.

Needless to say, they were not racing toward Fort Gordon.

Nor would they be. Sir Robert was holding up extraordinarily well, but he
was
eighty-five. Even given the luxury of their accommodations, the quality of the food, and their easy pace, it was a rigorous journey, and no one, most especially Sir Robert, was going to test the limits of his endurance.

Except, perhaps, their
reis
, a Bedouin who had scant patience with his aged client’s insistence on so many lengthy intermissions.

Haji glanced out of the tent where Zayed stood, arms crossed, staring out at the desert, disapproval in every line of his body. Haji did not know where Sir Robert had found a Bedouin willing to guide them, but then, Sir Robert had a long history in this country, and over those years he had gained the respect and admiration of a diverse group of people, the nomadic Bedouins among them.

“Miss Whimpelhall?” Professor Tynesborough said. “Some claret, perhaps?”

“I don’t think I ought to,” she demurred.

“Why, there’s nothing wrong is there, my dear?” Sir Robert asked, all solicitude. Though the years may have depleted his endurance, they had not affected his idea of himself as something of a ladies’ man.

“No,” she said. “It is just all this rich food. I am loath to admit it, but I find myself pining for a simple slice of cold shoulder and perhaps a piece of cheese.
Cow’s
milk cheese.”

“Your stomach is nasty again?” Magi asked from her seat beside Sir Robert’s, where he was never out from beneath her ever-vigilant eye.

“A bit,” Miss Whimpelhall said, blushing. Haji had never seen a woman so given to blushing. Often just a reference to bodily functions could make her face flame bright red right to the roots of her brown hair.

Haji had thought Miss Whimpelhall as portrayed by Ginesse Braxton had been bad enough, but the real Mildred Whimpelhall was worse. She arrived late to dine every night. As soon as she spotted Magi and him, for a few telling seconds her brows shot up. She could not have made it clearer that she thought they should have been serving rather than dining. And in part, she was right. His aunt and he came from a caste far below the pashas and nobles. Miss Whimpelhall was always gracious, but the sort of graciousness that was meant to remind others of her superiority.

Not that anyone else seemed to notice, even Magi. But then Magi’s world revolved around Sir Robert. She would be no more likely to note Miss Whimpelhall’s prejudice than she was to note Haji’s discomfort with it. In other words, not at all.

“I am sure something can be arranged, Miss Whimpelhall,” Magi said and beckoned to one of the attendants hovering silently in the background. There had been a time when Haji might have been one of them. If not for Magi and Sir Robert.

“Tell me, Professor, where did Ginesse find this clue as to the location of Zerzura?” Sir Robert asked as they continued their meal.

It wasn’t the first time the subject of the lost city had been broached.

“
Supposed
clue, Sir Robert,” the young professor corrected gently. “Oddly enough, it was in a scroll found in Pope Urban the Second’s library.”

“Someone wrote in Demotic to the pope? Absurd! The language was last employed five hundred years before he was even ordained.”

“I didn’t say they wrote to him. I said they sent it to him. By a squire he’d sent to North Africa during the First Crusade, I believe.”

Fascinated, Haji sat forward in his chair. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a purely academic conversation, and both Sir Robert and Professor Tynesborough had filled a void he hadn’t realized he’d had. It was bittersweet to imagine what life would have been like had he had the means for a proper education.

“What would he have been doing in North Africa?” Haji asked.

Professor Tynesborough lifted a hand in apology. “I can’t say. The papyrus only came to me because of the language it was written in. I glanced at it and promptly forgot about it. It appeared to be nothing more than a bill of goods from a caravan written during Cleopatra’s reign, so not my bailiwick. Not ancient enough,” he added for Miss Whimpelhall’s benefit. “About five thousand years too young. I gave it to Miss Braxton to catalogue.”

The chef, a heavily bearded Copt named Timon with skin the color of teak and a big belly he carried straight in front of him like a pregnant woman, appeared in the entrance to the dining pavilion. He bore a domed serving plate before him.

“What fool asks for cheese?” he demanded. “How am I to transport cheese through a desert? There is no cheese.”

Miss Whimpelhall took one look at the contemptuous man and shrank in her seat.

“Ah, Timon,” Sir Robert hailed the cook. “Miss Whimpelhall here is having a bit of a tummy upset. Unused to such glorious food, I shouldn’t wonder.”

The cook’s dark eyes latched on to Miss Whimpelhall. “No cheese and no meat without spice or sauces.”

“Then what have you there, Timon?” Sir Robert asked.

“The ingredients for a dessert that will make you weep for joy,” he announced. “A tender crepe, orange liqueur, butter and sugar. I will prepare
en table
.” He did not wait for permission—he simply clapped his hands, and at once an attendant arrived with a small table.

“Good show! At least I know you like a sweet,” Sir Robert said merrily with a pointed glance at Miss Whimpelhall’s figure, “and you must admit, Cook is a dab hand with desserts, so at least in this you won’t be disappointed.” He chuckled, oblivious to Miss Whimpelhall’s embarrassed glance.

Haji was impatient to return to their previous conversation. “Pardon my curiosity, Professor, but why would a crusader send such a list to a pope?”

“Ah,” Professor Tynesborough gently waggled his finger, “because that caravan had come from Zerzura.”

The chef’s head snapped around. “Zerzura? Zerzura is nothing but a myth.”

“Probably,” Professor Tynesborough agreed, apparently finding nothing unusual about trading archaeological theories with a cook and an Egyptian con man. By heaven, Haji liked the man. In some ways, he reminded him of Jim. “Miss Braxton’s research suggests the Oasis of Little Birds lies in a mountain range deep in the southwestern part of Egypt. But no one has ever even seen this mountain range, let alone the city.”

“No European,” Haji said excitedly. “And while I have not heard of mountains, some men I have traded with have in turn traded with others who say they have been to the shoulders of the desert, a great plateau.”

The cook paused in the process of sautéing some citrus fruit in butter and sugar. He slid a thin crepe into the golden syrup, making a disdainful sound. “And I suppose the Ark of the Covenant is waiting there to be discovered?”

“Hardly,” Sir Robert said. “The Judeo tradition keeps careful track of such things. No, that was lost in Alexandria. But if there is a city that deep in the desert, it only makes sense that it would have been a primary center for the caravan trade as well as a cultural crossroads for the ancient world. Oh, there would be treasure there, indeed.” He smiled at the cook. “But no ark.”

“Now here,” Timon announced, “is a treasure.” He set the plate in front of Miss Whimpelhall before serving the others. Then, with the slightest of bows, he left the pavilion.

For long, appreciative moments, no one spoke as they devoured the dessert. Finally, Sir Robert shoved himself back from the table. “I do enjoy roughing it now and again,” he said, patting his stomach fondly. “Makes one appreciate the finer things in life, what? I say, I wonder how Ginesse is faring? Do you suppose they’ve arrived at Fort Gordon yet?”

“If not yet, very soon,” Haji said, thinking of Jim. Haji would not like to be around when Jim discovered Ginesse’s masquerade. He was not a man who took being made a fool of lightly. Ginesse had best pray Jim remembered who her father was and then pray that he cared enough to let it make a difference. Haji wasn’t sure it would.

“Good. Good. I should hate to think she’s not having as fine a time as we are.” Sir Robert rolled his eyes toward Professor Tynesborough. “She was always a bully little camper, quite as at home in the desert as a Tuareg raider. Acted more like a son than a daughter.”

“That’s interesting,” Professor Tynesborough said. “I wonder if she found it a reprieve to come to London and be treated with the gentle regard and tenderness young ladies are generally accorded there.”

Sir Robert frowned as if this thought had never occurred to him. “I always thought she liked her life very much. Did she infer otherwise to you, Professor?” he asked.

“No,” the professor hastily assured him. “I was only wondering. She seemed mostly eager to get another degree, yet she was never one of those students who lived and breathed their studies. I thought perhaps she sought an excuse to stay in England and not return…here,” he finished weakly.

“Oh,” Sir Robert said, his brow furrowing and his lip stuck out in a thoughtful manner. He looked sad, Haji realized. He damned Tynesborough for dispelling one of the old gentleman’s fond illusions.

“I think she was quite happy in Egypt, Sir Robert,” Haji put in, winning a grateful look from Sir Robert. “I knew her well, remember. You gave me the role of nanny to her when she was allowed to visit the concessions where Mr. Braxton worked.”

“Nanny?” Sir Robert asked, perplexed. “Is that how you saw it?”

Haji made a slight, dismissive gesture and smiled to show he felt no rancor over it. “Well, wasn’t I?”

“No.” Sir Robert’s noble old face creased with hurt. “I considered you more like a big brother to her and asked you to watch over her in that spirit, not as a duty or as an employee, but as a family member. I thought that was clear.”

Haji froze. No. He hadn’t known.

“But then, after the fire, after Ginny left, well…it was clear you did not think of us in the same way because you disappeared.” Sir Robert regarded him with a mildly reproachful look. “I don’t mind telling you it was quite…empty in the house with both you and Ginesse gone. But then, I suppose young men must follow their own course. I do wish you had stayed in touch with us though. Even if you didn’t consider us your family, we consider you ours. Why did you leave, Haji?”

Because of my guilt. Because of my pride. Because I kept the fire Ginesse started burning in order to blame her. I thought once rid of her that the owners of those concessions where she’d been allowed to run amok would notice me, would take
me
seriously, would teach me.

But they hadn’t. Without Ginesse, there was no reason for Haji to be at those digs. The only one who’d ever truly shown an interest in his education had been Sir Robert, and he’d betrayed him. Haji couldn’t remain in Sir Robert’s house, seeing how much everyone missed Ginesse and knowing he was responsible. And all for nothing. Over the years he’d assuaged that guilt by transferring much of the blame to Ginesse.

“I thought it best,” Haji said and was saved from having to say more by Miss Whimpelhall.

“How…democratic,” she said and smiled brightly.