Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [3]
There was only one man who could have carried off such a masquerade. Ramses’s resemblance to the Egyptians among whom he had spent most of his life, his fluency in Arabic and several other languages, and his expertise in the dubious art of disguise made him the perfect candidate. It would be impossible to overstate the peril of his position: Wardani’s men would have murdered him if they had learned his true identity; the Germans and Turks would have murdered him if they suspected he was betraying their plans; and since “Wardani” had a price on his head, every police officer in Cairo was looking for him. Ramses and David, who had insisted on sharing the danger, had succeeded in preventing the uprising and had given the War Office a nice little bonus by exposing the traitor who had been selling information to the Central Powers; but each had suffered serious injuries and for several unfortunately unforgettable hours I had been afraid we were going to lose both of them.
“What about David?” I asked.
“Yes, there’s another thing,” Emerson grumbled. “He’s become absolutely indispensable to me; there’s not a finer artist or epigrapher in the business. But how can I ask him to leave his wife and child?”
“You can’t. The difficulty will be in preventing him from leaving them. He and Ramses are as close as brothers, and he feels he is the only person who can control Ramses’s recklessness.”
“No one can do that,” Emerson muttered. “I had hoped he’d settle down once he was married, but Nefret is almost as bad as—”
He broke off with a grunt as the door opened again. This time it was Nefret herself who entered.
“Did I hear my name mentioned?” she inquired innocently.
Ramses was with her. He usually was. I speak quite impartially, without maternal prejudice of any kind, when I state that they were a very handsome couple. His aquiline features, bronzed complexion, and wavy black hair formed a striking contrast to her fairness. At six feet and a bit, he was considerably taller than she. The top of her golden-red head barely reached his chin—a particularly convenient height, as I had once overheard him remark in a suspiciously muffled voice, when I happened to be passing the half-open door of their room one afternoon. Naturally I did not pause or look in.
I deduced that they had just returned from a morning ride, since both were suitably attired for that activity. Like Ramses, Nefret wore breeches and boots and a well-cut tweed coat. Fresh air and exercise had brought a pretty color to her cheeks, and loosened tendrils of hair curled over her temples.
“Ah,” said Emerson, self-consciously. “Er. Come in. We were just discussing our plans for the coming season.”
“I trust you had intended to consult us,” said Nefret. “Father, you know we agreed that we wouldn’t ever again keep secrets from one another.”
Though she had joined our family at the age of thirteen, after we rescued her from the remote oasis in the Western Desert where she had lived from birth, she had not used that affectionate form of address to Emerson, or called me Mother, until after she and Ramses had become one. Emerson had always loved her as dearly as a daughter; to hear that word from her lips reduced him to jelly.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he exclaimed.
The young people seated themselves on the sofa, where Nefret proceeded to make herself comfortable, tucking her feet up and leaning against Ramses. He put his arm around her and gave me a sidelong smile. It was very pleasant to see the change in him since his marriage. As a child he had been perniciously verbose. As an adult he had employed speech to hide his feelings instead of expressing them, and he had schooled his countenance to such an extent that Nefret often teased him about his stone pharaoh face. I had given him several motherly lectures on the inadvisability of concealing emotions that were deep and warm, but Nefret’s loving, impulsive nature had had a more profound effect. It is difficult for a man to remain aloof with a woman