Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [128]
“You came,” she whispered, seizing my hand. “I was afraid you would not. Thank you, thank you!”
“I said I would come,” I replied. “When I say I will do something, Enid, you may be certain I will do it.”
Ramses studied her from under lowered brows; and indeed she little resembled the demure archaeologist of Dahshoor. She was wearing an extravagantly frivolous gown, all ruffles and puffs and lace, and her lips and cheeks were rouged. I daresay she wore no more paint than usual, but owing to the pallor of her face, the red patches stood out with garish effect.
Retaining her tight grasp on my hand, she reached out her other hand to Ramses. “Don’t you know your old friend in this costume?” she asked, with a brave attempt at a smile.
“I hope you do not suppose that a superficial alteration of that nature could deceive my trained eye,” Ramses replied in evident chagrin. “I was merely endeavoring to decide whether I prefer this persona to the other. On the whole—”
It had taken only a few days to teach Enid that if someone did not interrupt Ramses, he would go on talking indefinitely. “No matter what my outward appearance, Ramses, my feelings will never change. I am your true friend, and I hope I may consider you mine.”
Ramses was moved. A casual observer might not have realized it, for the only outward expression of his feelings was a rapid blink of his eyelids. He replied in his most dignified manner, “Thank you. You may indeed rely upon my friendship, and if at any time in the future you have need of my services, they are at your disposal, although I sincerely trust that you will never regret your decision to accept the hand of a person who, though not entirely devoid of admirable qualities, is not—”
I suppressed Ramses. At least he had made Enid smile; turning to me, she said, “Perhaps you think me bold to sit here in full view of all the gossips. But I will not skulk in my room as if I had done something to be ashamed of. Donald and I are victims, not villains.”
“I am entirely of your opinion,” I replied warmly. “Mr. Baehler gave you your rooms back? I was concerned about that, since it is the height of the season, and Shepheard’s is always crowded.”
“I had booked them for a month and paid in advance. Besides,” Enid added, with a wry smile, “I imagine he would have difficulty finding someone who was willing to inhabit them just now. I confess I do not look forward to sleeping in that bed. If you are remaining in Cairo for a few days, perhaps Ramses—”
“I would be more than happy,” declared Ramses.
I exchanged glances with Emerson. “We will think about it, Enid. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime, I hope you will be my guests for luncheon,” Enid said. “I have not quite enough courage to walk into the dining salon alone.”
Naturally we agreed. I excused myself long enough to retrieve and destroy the letter I had left for Emerson the day before, and then joined the others. We had hardly taken our seats when Mr. Baehler came to the table. He apologized for disturbing our meal. “But this message was just left for you, and since it is marked ‘Urgent,’ I thought—”
“Ah,” I said, reaching for the letter. “You were quite right to bring it at once, Mr. Baehler.”
“It is directed to Professor Emerson,” Baehler said.
“How extraordinary,” I exclaimed.
“What do you mean, extraordinary?” Emerson demanded. “I have many acquaintances in Cairo who . . .” He perused the letter. “Extraordinary,” he muttered.
Baehler departed, and Emerson handed me the letter. It was, as I had suspected, from Mr. Gregson. “Professor,” it read. “I will be at the Café Orientale at twelve noon sharp. Do not fail me. Matters are approaching a climax, and if you wish to avert the peril threatening a person near and dear to you, you must hear what I have learned.”
“I knew it,” I said triumphantly. “That proves you are mistaken, Ramses; if Mr. Gregson had any designs on me, he would not invite your father to be present. We must go at once; it is almost twelve.”
Emerson pressed me back into my chair. “You