Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [52]
Christabel? The idea of that dedicated suffragette undulating about in the robes of Hathor, murmuring sweet nothings, was so ludicrous he laughed aloud. They had not parted on the friendliest of terms, but she wasn’t the sort to abandon her cause for a petty revenge. What about . . .
The door opened to admit Nefret. He started guiltily, snatched a towel and fled, mumbling apologies for being so long. Had he really been lolling in the bath running over the list of his . . . conquests, some might call them? In his own defense he could truthfully claim that a good many of them had been one-sided and unconsummated. Except for Enid and Layla and one or two others . . . three or four others . . . No. It was a ridiculous theory, and he wouldn’t think about it again.
THE SUNSET CALLS OF THE muezzins died into silence and the skies darkened as they drove along the path to the Castle. Selim arrived a few moments later, while they were getting out of the carriages. He made a dashing figure in his flowing robes, astride his favorite stallion; in the crimson glow of the torches that lit the courtyard he was a picture of pure romance, and he obviously knew it. Evelyn exclaimed in admiration, and Lia applauded. Selim grinned complacently.
“Well-timed, Selim,” Ramses said.
Selim swung himself out of the saddle and handed the reins to one of Cyrus’s stablemen. “I should have come earlier or later. Someone shot at me.”
Exclamations of alarm and concern arose, especially from the newcomers. Having got the sensation he desired, Selim put on an air of manly indifference. “I am not hurt. It did not touch me.”
“Those damned-fool hunters, I presume,” said Emerson, unimpressed. “They go out at twilight to shoot jackals. There are more of them than there were in the old days, Walter, and some of them shouldn’t be trusted with a weapon.”
“Dear me,” said his brother in alarm. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Dangerous, no. Annoying, yes. Just don’t go for a quiet stroll at twilight near the Valley or the Ramesseum.”
“Come on in, folks,” Cyrus called from the doorway of the house. “Welcome! It’s great to have you back.”
While Cyrus was shaking hands all round, Selim beckoned Ramses aside.
“One does not wish to frighten the women,” he began in a low voice.
“Frighten my mother?”
“The Sitt Hakim fears neither man nor beast nor demon of the night,” said Selim, adapting one of Daoud’s sayings about Emerson. “But someone should speak to the police about the hunters, Ramses. They are becoming careless.”
He held out his arms, stretching the fabric of his outer garment. The light was poor, but Ramses knew what to look for. There were several holes. When Selim lowered his arms, the fabric fell into graceful folds, and the rents overlapped. One bullet. But it had passed dangerously close to Selim’s side.
“I’ll have a word with Father,” Ramses promised. “And you be more careful.”
The gathering was informal; in deference to Emerson’s well-known dislike of evening kit, Cyrus wore one of his elegant white linen suits. Bertie was looking more and more like one of the minor poets, with a scarf draped round his neck and, on this occasion, a blue velvet coat and a pensive expression.
The pleasure with which Cyrus had greeted them soon passed, however, and his long face relapsed into lines like those of a mournful hound. As Ramses had expected, his mother didn’t allow that state of affairs to continue.
“Now, Cyrus, it is high time you got a proper perspective on this business,” she said, briskly buttering a roll. “It is not really that important.”
“Not important!” Cyrus cried in anguished tones. “But I—”
“There are literally hundreds of objects in the collection, Cyrus, including other bracelets and several pectorals. After a single visit M. Lacau cannot claim to remember every one of them. It would be his word against ours.”
Her tone was so matter-of-fact that for a moment the preposterous suggestion almost made sense. Emerson stared at his wife. “Good Gad,