The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [24]
“Good Gad, that is true,” I exclaimed. “We dare not arouse the slightest suspicion that the transaction was not legitimate. Then how …”
I did not complete the sentence. There was no need; we all knew the answer. My heart sank when I saw Emerson’s face. His tight lips had relaxed, his eyes shone.
“By concealing our true identities,” he said happily. “That is how. Disguised as a wealthy collector, I will say I have heard rumors about an outstanding group of antiquities that has recently come on the market—”
“No, Emerson,” I said. “No, my dear. Not you.”
“Why the devil not? I trust,” said Emerson, glowering, “that you are not implying I cannot carry off a masquerade of that sort as competently as—as anyone.”
He transferred the glare to Ramses.
Ramses’s expertise at the dubious art of disguise was a source of irritation as well as pride to his father; not only had it been inspired by an individual for whom Emerson had a particular detestation, but it was a skill at which Emerson himself secretly yearned to excel. He has a fondness for theatrics and a positive passion for beards, possibly because I had deprived him of his, not once but twice! Unhappily it is a skill at which Emerson cannot succeed. His magnificent physique defies concealment, and his outrageous temper explodes under the slightest provocation.
Ramses remained prudently silent. I said, “I am not implying, Emerson, I am telling you straight out. There is no way of disguising the color of those sapphirine orbs or the strength of your chin and jaw, or your imposing height and impressive musculature.”
The adjectives had a softening effect, but he was too set on the scheme to give in without an argument. “A beard,” he began.
“No, Emerson. I know how much you like beards, but they are inadequate to the purpose.”
“A beard and a Russian accent,” Emerson suggested. “Nyet, tovarich!”
Ramses winced. Nefret’s lips trembled. She was trying not to laugh.
“Oh, very well,” I said. “I will go with you, also in disguise. Your wife? No, your mistress. French. A Titian wig and a great deal of paint and powder; champagne satin cut low over the—er—and copious quantities of jewelry. Topazes or perhaps citrines.”
Emerson stared at me. I could tell from his expression that he was picturing me in the ensemble I had described. “Hmmm,” he said.
“Father,” Ramses exclaimed. “You can’t mean to allow Mother to appear in public as a—a—”
Emerson burst out laughing. “Good Gad,” he said, between chuckles, “what a prude you are, my boy. She didn’t mean it, you know. At least I don’t think … Very well, Peabody, I give in. We’ll leave it to Ramses, eh?”
“Thank you, Father.”
“The French mistress is an excellent idea, though,” Nefret said thoughtfully. “I won’t even need the wig. A little henna will do the job.”
FROM LETTER COLLECTION B
Dearest Lia,
I ought to add “and David,” since I know perfectly well that in the first rapturous flush of matrimonial affection you will want to share everything with him. But I hope, dearest, that you won’t share all my confidences with David. Do you know (but you must) that you are the first and only woman friend I have ever had? Aunt Amelia and I have become very close, but there are some things she wouldn’t understand. So prepare yourself, dear Lia, for a spate of letters. Some may never reach you, traveling as you are, but the act of writing will serve as a substitute, however feeble, for those long talks we have when we are together.
You’ll never guess whom Ramses and I ran into in London last week—Maude Reynolds and her brother Jack—you remember them—the Americans who were with Reisner last year. After the usual exchanges of “What a surprise!” and “How is it you are in London?” I introduced everyone properly.
Ramses immediately began to slouch, the way he does when he is trying to look inconspicuous and/or harmless. Absolutely futile, of