He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [35]
I glanced at my lapel watch. “She is late.”
At this innocuous remark Emerson broke off in the middle of a sentence and turned a formidable frown on me.
“She? Who? Curse it, Peabody, have you invited some fluttery female to join us? I would never have agreed to come here if I had suspected—”
“Ah, there she is.”
She was very handsome in a mature, rather Latin, style, with very red lips and very dark hair, and although she wore the black decreed for recent widows, it was extremely fashionable mourning. Chiffon and point d’esprit filled in the waist opening, and her hat was heaped with black satin bows and jet buckles.
The man whose arm she held was also a newcomer to Cairo. He looked familiar; I stared rather sharply until I realized that the narrow black mustache and the eyeglass through which he was inspecting the lady reminded me of a sinister Russian I had once known. He was not the only man with her; she was virtually surrounded by admirers civilian and military, upon whom she smiled with practiced impartiality.
“Is that her?” Emerson demanded. “I hope you didn’t invite the whole lot of them as well.”
“No.” I raised my parasol and waved. This caught the lady’s eye; with a little gesture of apology she began to detach herself from her followers. I went on, “She is a Mrs. Fortescue, the widow of a gentleman who perished heroically in France recently. I received a letter from her enclosing an introduction from mutual friends—you remember the Witherspoons, Emerson?”
From Emerson’s expression I could tell he did remember the Witherspoons and was about to express his opinion of them. He was forestalled by Ramses, who had been studying the lady with interest. “Why should she write you, Mother? Is she interested in archaeology?”
“So she claimed. I saw no harm in extending the hand of friendship to one who has suffered such a bitter loss.”
“She does not appear to be suffering at the moment,” said Nefret.
Her brother gave her a sardonic look, and I said, “Hush, here she comes.”
She had shed all her admirers but one, a fresh-faced officer who looked no more than eighteen. Introductions ensued; since the youth, a Lieutenant Pinckney, continued to hover, watching the lady with doglike devotion, I felt obliged to ask him to join us. Emerson and Ramses resumed their chairs, and Mrs. Fortescue began to apologize for her tardiness.
“Everyone is so kind,” she murmured. “It is impossible to dismiss well-wishers, you know. I hope I have not kept you waiting long. I have so looked forward to this meeting!”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, who is easily bored and who does not believe in beating around the bush. “My wife tells me you are interested in Egyptology.”
From the way her black eyes examined his clean-cut features and firm mouth, I suspected Egyptology was not her only interest. However, her reply indicated that she had at least some superficial knowledge of the subject, and Emerson at once launched into a description of the Giza mastabas.
Knowing he would monopolize the conversation as long as she tolerated it, I turned to the young subaltern, who appeared somewhat crestfallen by the lady’s desertion. My motherly questions soon cheered him up, and he was happy to tell me all about his family in Nottingham. He had arrived in Egypt only a week before, and although he would rather have been in France, he had hopes of seeing action before long.
“Not that Johnny Turk is much of a challenge,” he added with a boyish laugh and a reassuring glance at Nefret, who had been studying him fixedly,