The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [71]
Just about the only one. Young Albion went on. And on. He was not inclined to give America’s oldest university any credit for his present state of admitted erudition. “There’s not much being done with Egyptian art qua art,” he stated. “I had to work it out myself. I’ve pretty well exhausted what the Metropolitan Museum and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts have to offer. A winter in Egypt seemed the logical next step.”
“And a spot of tomb robbing?” Ramses finally managed to get a word in. “I trust your father was joking about that. A number of people, including my father, wouldn’t be amused.”
“It goes on all the time, doesn’t it?”
“To some extent; but—”
“Yes, yes,” Sebastian said condescendingly. “I understand how people like you feel about it. Now my book—”
Ramses caught Nefret’s eye again and grimaced. It was a distress signal, and she responded with a grin and a slight nod.
Sebastian rambled on. He would be writing a book, Ramses thought. One of those books—the kind that will never be finished, because the author keeps finding additional material. Ramses had known a few scholars like that; he had always suspected their real reason for procrastinating was a reluctance to risk criticism. Sebastian declared that it was his intention to view every piece of Egyptian art in the world. It would be the definitive book on Egyptian art—when he finished it.
“What are you doing in Luxor, then?” Ramses asked. “The Cairo Museum—”
“Yes, yes, I know. I will get to the Museum in due course, but I wanted to see the tomb painting in situ, as it were—take photographs, make sketches, and so on. I’m a collector in a small way, and hoped to pick up a few good pieces here.”
Ramses realized that if he went on talking to Sebastian he would say something rude. “If you’ll excuse me,” he began. “My wife—”
“That’s she, isn’t it?” Sebastian’s head turned. “Lovely woman. Hope you don’t mind my saying so.”
Ramses did mind, but though Sebastian’s tone was mildly offensive, he could not take exception to the words themselves. Sebastian went on, “There’s a delicious little creature. Is she available to anyone, or is Vandergelt keeping her for himself and Bertie?”
For one incredulous moment, Ramses thought the fellow was referring to Nefret. Then he realized that Sebastian was looking at Jumana.
Nefret had been on her way to join them when she saw Ramses’s face freeze. It wasn’t the old “stone pharaoh” face that concealed his thoughts, but a sign of fury so consuming it canceled thought and reason and everything else except a primitive need to act. She crossed the remaining distance in two long steps, slipped her arm through that of her husband, and caught hold of his hand. Under the pressure of her fingers his own fingers slowly uncurled. “You must be Mr. Sebastian Albion,” she said lightly. “I’ve just been talking with your mother. I’m Nefret Emerson.”
“How do you do.” Albion hadn’t missed Ramses’s reaction. He took a step back.
“Katherine wants to ask you something, Ramses,” Nefret went on. “Will you excuse us, Mr. Albion?”
“Just a minute,” Ramses said. “We need to get something straight, Albion. The lady to whom you referred is a protégée of Mrs. Vandergelt’s and a member of our family.”
“Your family? But surely she is—”
“A member of our family,” Ramses repeated. “And a young, respectable girl. Where the hell did you get the idea that an Egyptian woman is free to any man who wants her? In the Cairo brothels?”
“Ramses,” Nefret murmured.
Albion had gone white. He mumbled something that might have been an apology, nodded at Nefret, and walked off.
“What on earth did he say?” Nefret asked. “You were going to hit him!”
“I was, wasn’t I?” His fingers twined with hers. “In a way I’m sorry you stopped me.”
“It would have ruined Cyrus’s party,” Nefret said practically. “I was watching you, and I could see it building up. Something about Jumana?”
“You can probably guess what.”
“Yes. Bastard,” she added.