Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [206]
“I knew before that,” Nefret said smugly.
“Because he behaved so abominably to her?”
“He was falling in love with her and he didn’t want to,” Nefret explained. “Women are such nuisances, aren’t they? Always hanging about demanding attention and complaining, and getting themselves captured.”
“ ‘White hands cling to the tightened rein,’ ” her husband agreed solemnly. “ ‘Slipping the spur from the booted heel—’ ”
“Poetry!” Nefret said scornfully. She pulled his head down and kissed him. He responded without self-consciousness or restraint, and when they broke apart and saw that his mother was—of course!—watching them with an approving smile, he grinned at her and held Nefret closer.
“Kipling had never met you or Mother,” he remarked, raising her hand to his face. “He wouldn’t have written such rubbish if he had.”
“She’s gesturing at us,” Nefret said, as his lips explored her palm and fingers. “I think she wants us to sing carols. Couldn’t we slip away?”
“Away from Mother, when she’s in a sentimental mood? Not bloody likely. Contain yourself a little longer, you shameless woman.”
“I am entirely without shame,” Nefret murmured. “But I don’t think I can control myself if she tries to make the Master Criminal join in a rousing chorus of ‘Deck the Halls’! Surely not even she would expect . . .”
She did expect it, and he was too cowed to protest. Or perhaps, Nefret thought, there was another reason. She was surprised to find that he knew all the words.
Sethos was gone next morning, and so was Margaret. Despite Emerson’s indignant complaints, Nefret suspected he had collaborated in his brother’s disappearance. It would have been difficult for the pair to get away without help from someone.
The beard and Ramses’s best suit were missing too. The only thing they found in Sethos’s room was a small parcel, addressed to Nefret. It contained a bracelet of linked carnelian plaques, exquisitely carved with the figures of a king and queen enthroned.
“Amenhotep the Third and Queen Tiy,” Ramses said, breathing hard. “He lied about that, too! He did find her jewelry.”
“Good of him to share,” his mother said coolly.
He had left nothing for her.
“What do you suppose he’s done with the rest of the jewelry?” Emerson asked.
We were in our room, collecting the articles we would need that day. I buckled my belt of tools round my waist.
“He will sell them to a wealthy collector—he has built up quite a clientele, I imagine—or a well-funded museum. Some of those institutions have no scruples about purchasing stolen artifacts.”
“Hmph,” Emerson agreed. He gave me a sidelong look. “I was somewhat surprised that he—er—neglected to give you anything.”
“It was a typically oblique and a typically graceful gesture, my dear. An acknowledgment of his altered feelings for me—and you—and his commitment to another lady.”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson. “You really think she—”
“Temporary commitment, perhaps I should say. How long the—er—arrangement will last one cannot predict, but she is a very determined woman and he is no longer an impetuous youth. It is time he settled down.”
“I doubt he would agree, Peabody. Confound it, he as good as admitted he has not abandoned the antiquities game. Are we to be on opposite sides again?”
“He did add a certain spice to our lives, Emerson, admit it.”
Emerson passed his hand over his mouth. “I will admit he was the only adversary worthy of our steel.”
“You have forgiven him, then?”
“Oh, bah, forgive . . .” Emerson no longer attempted to conceal his smile. “I suppose I can hardly blame him for having the good taste to admire you. And he hasn’t tried to murder me for years! I wish he would turn to a line of work that doesn’t interfere with mine, but I can even put up with that, unless . . .”
“Unless what, Emerson?”
“Unless he has the damned audacity to die again!”
About the Author
Elizabeth Peters was born and brought up in Illinois and earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the University of Chicago’s famed Oriental Institute. She was named Grandmaster at the inaugural Anthony Awards in 1986