Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [137]
“Don’t apologize.” Margaret finished her brandy. “I know I look like the wrath of God, and I don’t care. May I—may I go back to him?”
“One or two more questions.”
She sank back onto the settee, her lips curving in a sardonic smile. “Is that all?”
“For the moment. Why did you bring him here?”
She hadn’t expected that. Ramses realized she hadn’t even thought about it. Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Where else could we go? He needed a doctor and I could never have got him across the river . . . I suppose it ought to have occurred to me that I might be putting you and your wife in danger. I’m sorry about that.”
Ramses shook his head. “If you had been followed this far, they had ample time to dispose of him while you were waiting for us to return. Perhaps I ought to have expressed myself differently. What made you suppose we would take him in?”
“Another interesting question,” Margaret said thoughtfully. “Bear in mind I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I simply assumed you would do the decent thing.”
“Yes, of course,” Ramses said wryly. “Noblesse oblige and all that.”
“Your mother said he had saved her life. You wouldn’t—you aren’t going to turn him over to the police?”
“I haven’t decided what the devil I’m going to do with him. Don’t worry,” he added, less forcibly. “So long as he’s ill he’s safe with us.”
Abbreviated though her account had been, it had taken longer than he had realized. He held the door for her, wondering how they were going to account for her presence. She wouldn’t leave unless he dragged her away kicking and screaming. It would be even more difficult to explain the presence of a strange man.
His uncle was deeply asleep and Nefret was arranging a blanket that covered him to the chin. She must have changed the sheets; a pile of crumpled linen lay by the bed.
“You should have waited for me to help you,” he said.
“Any halfway competent nurse can shove a two-hundred-pound man around, even when he’s a deadweight. The sheets were soaked. The fever has broken, and he’ll sleep through till morning now.”
“I’ll stay with him,” Margaret said. “You must be tired.”
“I’m used to this, but I’ll accept the offer. Go wash your face and hands and take off those filthy clothes. I’ll get you one of my dressing gowns. The minute he stirs, wake me. We’re next door.”
As soon as they were in their room Nefret kicked off her shoes and began unfastening buckles and buttons.
“Are we going to bed?” Ramses asked, without much hope.
“Not yet, we’ve a lot to discuss. Hand me my dressing gown, will you please? The crew will be up at dawn. How are we going to account for them being here?”
“She was here earlier, looking for us.”
“Yes.” Nefret tied the sash of her dressing gown. “So she came back later . . . and he with her . . . and they both had a bit too much to drink.” She chuckled. “They had better be Mr. and Mrs., hadn’t they.”
“But she’s known in Luxor,” Ramses protested.
Nefret waved a dismissive hand. “Men have no imagination. He’s her estranged husband, who followed her here hoping for a reconciliation. Which duly took place. That’s why they were celebrating tonight.”
“Your imagination is as outrageous as Mother’s,” Ramses said. “There are so many holes in that plot, it resembles a sieve. What if he’s ill again tomorrow?”
“He will be ill again.” She curled up on the bed. “You’ve got him right where you wanted him. Before the next attack he’ll be weak but coherent.”
Ramses tossed his coat over a chair and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Taking advantage of a sick man? Well, why not? It’s in the best traditions of the Game.”
“Ramses, you have to. This is a very unpleasant development. You don’t understand the implications.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at, no.”
He finished undressing and put on a galabeeyah, knowing he might be rousted out of bed early in the morning by a hysterical woman. Nefret sat up, tucking her feet under her.
“If he’d had an attack before, he’d have recognized the symptoms. With most types of malaria there are inevitable relapses; we